All the Effects of Intoxication
by Miroslav
Summary: Instead of committing suicide, Javert goes on a three-day bender. When Valjean finds him, Javert assumes he's a hallucination. Things proceed awkwardly from there.
1. Song of the Drunkard

This story is currently being filled on the Les Mis kinkmeme for the prompt:

"Javert/Valjean. Instead of committing suicide Javert goes on a three-day bender. When Valjean finds him, Javert assumes he's a hallucination. Cue hurt/comfort and slurred confessions and a happy ending once everyone has sobered up."

Nearly 40,000 words later and still ongoing, this is probably more of a slow build towards a happy ending than the original prompter intended, but I hope everyone enjoys it anyway!

The fic is currently rated R for future content.

The title comes from the Oscar Wilde quotation, "I have made an important discovery... that alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, produces all the effect of intoxication."

Thanks go out to the lesmiseres folks, who have encouraged me with the story and helped me when I've been stuck.

**Warning: Contains references to self-harm and thoughts of suicide. **

* * *

"Then wine held this and wine held that

until I became wine's tool-  
what a fool!"

-___Song of the Drunkard_ by Rainer Maria Rilke

* * *

Javert raised his glass to his lips. It took a moment to realize that the glass was empty, but when he did, he studied it in puzzled, mute betrayal, as he had the last three times such a perfidy had occurred.

"Another," he said, or tried to. His numb lips refused to shape the word. He made a vague gesture with the glass; surely that would carry across his meaning.

"Not until I see another fifteen sous," said someone above him. "And then you'll be on your way, monsieur. If you want to drink yourself to death, you should do it in the privacy of your own house." Javert made an effort to focus his gaze, which had acquired the unfortunate habit of turning everything not directly before him into smudges of color. With some difficulty he recognized the wine-shop's owner.

Javert did not respond to the latter part of the man's statement, focused instead on the part that would ensure him another drink. He fumbled in the pocket of his greatcoat and after a moment's effort, unearthed the demanded payment with a sound of satisfaction. The sous disappeared, and in their place sat another glass of beer.

He gulped the beer down, not tasting it. No, tasting the alcohol was not the point. Let the alcohol instead destroy the thoughts he had fled from that night upon the parapet, turn his teeming brain blank, that he might find some peace in oblivion.

When the glass was empty, Javert drew himself upright. The movement was careful, for over the course of the past few days, he had learned how treacherous the ground turned once a man had drunk his weight in alcohol. He gripped the back of his chair for a moment, until he felt less like a sailor stepping foot upon land for the first time in months.

Then he moved towards the door, trying to calculate the distance to the next wine-shop and the likelihood of that owner taking one look at him and throwing him back onto the street. He almost shook his head before he thought better of the gesture. "There is always another wine-shop, so long as you have the coin," he muttered under his breath, and barked out a laugh as though he had amused himself with a witticism.

The loud, rough sound drew curious looks; he ignored them, stepping outside and squinting against the too-bright sun. He had long since lost track of time, but it must have been mid-afternoon at least, for the heat of the June sun struck him like a blow. His exposed skin prickled from the warmth, and for the first time he regretted the loss of his hat, left behind at the second or third wine-shop, and his cravat, discarded at the fifth.

His vision swam from heat and drink. Shadows turned fanciful, seeming to leap up from where they had been passively following their owners and walk on their own, dark blurs of movement that made Javert's head ache. When he closed his eyes, the sun turned the back of his eyelids red. He opened his eyes. Somehow he had gone from standing outside the wine-shop to being half-seated, half-slumped against a stone post. He eyed his legs pensively, for his feet were in the street. He should probably move them if he didn't wish to be trampled by a carriage, but somehow he could not quite convince his legs to move. His boots twitched briefly, but that was all.

He was aware of passerby, but their forms wavered like mirages; he was not certain which were real and which the result of one too many glasses of beer. It didn't matter, really. None of the passerby dared to approach him, and he was left in relative peace with his indignity. Javert decided to close his eyes. He would rest until he felt better prepared to move on, or until the wine-shop owner came out and ordered him gone, whichever happened first. Then he would find the next wine-shop.

A minute or perhaps an hour later, a voice that could not be real called his name.

Javert opened his eyes and looked up at a hallucination, which wavered for a moment until it solidified into a familiar visage. His mind remembered Valjean's features well: the deep creases at the corners of his eyes, the startling whiteness of his beard, the way his mouth hung slightly open when he was surprised. The hallucination seemed almost real as he gawked at Javert.

Javert's lips parted in a smile. He laughed his noiseless laugh. "A fair revenge," he remarked, for obviously this was his brain's way of reciprocating all the abuse he had heaped upon it in the past few days.

The hallucination's mouth snapped shut and then pursed; its expression turned from astonishment to concern. "Javert," it repeated, sounding almost hesitant. "Are you ill?"

"Ill?" Javert said, and laughed again. He lifted a hand, flapped it at the apparition. It took him a moment to convince his lips and tongue to work together to form intelligible speech. "No, no, that will not do at all. You will have to do better than that as a delusion. I must smell of beer. He is many things, but he is not un- he is not-" He paused and considered his chances of successfully pronouncing the word 'unobservant.' He thought it unlikely. "He would notice," he finished, and closed his eyes. The hallucination was too vivid; the white of its hair and the fine details of the way its brow had furrowed and its nostrils flared made Javert's head ache.

His brain countered with a surprising sally. A puff of wind that could almost have been mistaken for a man's breath touched his face, and then the hallucination said, very close, as though it crouched next to Javert now, "Javert, look at me. What has happened to you?"

When Javert opened his eyes, the apparition was kneeling beside him, apparently unconcerned with dirtying its workman's clothes in the dirt and grime of the sidewalk. Then again, why would a hallucination care about filth that could not touch it? Javert tried to straighten, but his spine refused to obey, his shoulders remained slumped; it was all he could do to keep his chin from lowering back to his chest.

"It is perfectly obvious," he muttered a little crossly.

Already the fleeting humor at his mind's punishment attempt was shifting to frustration. He had sought to drown all thoughts and memories of Valjean in beer. Instead he seemed to have summoned Valjean's specter. He thought of the money he had spent over the past few days, all a waste if this was the result of his efforts.

Well, he would punish his brain for its transgressions, he thought, and forced himself to sit straighter, despite the heavy weight of his head and how the ground seemed to undulate beneath him like a wave. He pressed the palms of his hands onto the cobblestone, leveraged himself upright using the post for support. He ignored the hand that the apparition offered him.

"Where are you going?" the hallucination asked, which was foolish. Surely his brain knew what Javert planned.

"To the nearest-" Javert paused, looked at the recently vacated wine-ship, and amended what he had been about to say. "To the next wine-shop. Obviously I am not drunk enough if you are here."

The apparition got to its feet with a wince, as though his mind had ridiculously conjured aches and pains with which to torment Valjean's specter. "Javert, your words make no sense," it said, and Javert laughed again.

"I am making perfect sense." He touched his pocket where he kept his money, frowned. "I hope you are only a drink or two from going away. I do not know how much more beer I can afford."

The hallucination's expression shifted to mulishness. "You have drunk enough for the day." It paused, and Javert had the impression that it was resisting the urge to wrinkle its nose. "I think you have drunk enough for the ___year_," was muttered, not quite under the specter's breath. Its tone was impossible to decipher; Javert could not tell if exasperation or concern colored the words.

Regardless the sentiment, Javert ignored it and turned on heel. There would be a wine-shop in any direction he went; there seemed to be nearly as many wine-shops as there were cafes in Paris. He ignored how many times he nearly tripped over his own feet as he walked away from his hallucination. He grimly gathered up the remnants of his dignity and kept walking.

He was not entirely surprised when the apparition fell into step behind him like an unwanted second shadow. At least the hallucination was silent for the moment. Javert half-closed his eyes in concentration, putting one careful foot in front of the other. He'd created a mental map of Paris over the years, memorized the various streets and shortcuts as well as all the important places and landmarks where one could understand best the mood of the city. For Parisians, that mostly meant the salons and the wine-shops.

At the moment, however, his mind's map was useless, blurred as though the alcohol he'd consumed over the past few days had saturated it. The names of the streets smeared like dampened ink, the locations of the wine-shops smudged beyond recognition. He paused, cursing quietly in frustration.

Javert supposed he could simply wander the streets until he found a wine-shop, but already his mouth was dry and he could feel the beginnings of a headache that warned of impending sobriety. He raised his hand, rubbed at his forehead, and swore again, louder. He needed another drink.

"Javert," the apparition said, almost gently. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Slept or drank myself unconscious?" Javert countered. Then he shrugged. "I do not remember. It is of no consequence."

The apparition moved to match pace with him, the better to fix a determined look upon Javert and purse its lips at him. Javert had not realized that his mind would invoke a Valjean that seemed less like a strange blend of the dangerous convict and the saintly mayor and more like a scolding nursemaid.

"It ___is_ of consequence," said the hallucination. "You need to sleep and get something other than alcohol in you. Tell me your address. We shall get you a decent meal."

"This is getting foolish," Javert muttered under his breath. Must the specter persist in pretending that it did not know his innermost thoughts, when in fact it ___was_ his innermost thoughts?

It was not until he turned left instead of right at the end of the street that he realized he was obeying his mind's demand. Well, somewhat. He might not have answered the hallucination aloud, but he was headed in the direction of his apartment. Well, he mused, doubtless the porter would have some wine, drunkard that he was. That would have to do for the time being.

"Javert," the hallucination said again, and was firmly ignored.

Though it was around mid-afternoon, Javert found the porter unconscious at his post. The snoring man clutched at a wine jug that was hopefully not yet empty. Javert saw no sign of the portress; either she was upstairs or she had stormed off in a rage to her sister's, vowing yet again not to return until her husband quit drinking.

It was the matter of a few seconds to pluck the jug from the man's grasp and weigh it. Much to his relief, it felt half-full. Javert wiped the mouth of the jug with his handkerchief and then brought it to his lips even as the hallucination made a sound of protest.

The wine was warm and cloyingly sweet, and Javert grimaced as he gulped down a few mouthfuls. Still, wine was wine. Already he felt the tension in his head begin to ease, his half-returned sobriety starting its retreat.

He made to raise the jug to his lips again, and frowned at his mind's rebellion, for a firm hand seized hold of his wrist and stilled the gesture. His mind had gone so far as to give Valjean's specter calluses on its hands, its fingers rough against Javert's skin. The fine detail made Javert grit his teeth and vow viciously to drown his brain in even more spirits.

"I did not follow you here to watch you drink more," the hallucination sniped at him. It had remained silent during their walk, showing its concern in worried glances and a furrowed brow. Now something like exasperation turned its voice harsh. "Where is the kitchen? You need food and rest, not more alcohol."

"I ___need_ you to let me be," Javert said, and tried in vain to escape its grasp. He was glad that the porter was unconscious. Javert must have made a fine sight, fighting with thin air to drink again from the wine jug. He made a face when his mind did not relent, when instead the specter glowered at him and only tightened its grip upon his wrist. "Give over. I am not hungry." His stomach roiled, his belly pinching at him for the lie, but he continued, "I am thirsty, that is all."

The hallucination's expression darkened. In the next instant its free hand ripped the wine jug from Javert's hand and all but flung it back upon the porter's lap. The porter snorted but didn't wake.

"If you are thirsty, you will have water," the apparition said coolly and then dragged Javert forward, further into the house. Javert dug in his heels, but his mind remembered too well Valjean's strength; it was like being dragged by a bull. "Where is the kitchen?" it demanded, but it was already turning towards the correct door, shoving it open and marching inside before Javert could answer.

The kitchen was empty. Somehow Javert found himself seated at the table, the hallucination's hands pressing down upon his shoulders and holding him there. He blinked, and cursed his mind again for its attention to detail. The specter's face was too close to his. There was no way to escape the obvious concern and frustration in those dark eyes, ignore the tension that tightened the hallucination's jaw so that a muscle jumped there every few seconds. Javert even could have counted every eyelash if he'd had the inclination.

"You are going to eat, and then you will show me your room and you are going to sleep. And then we are going to discuss why you seem so determined to drink yourself to death, to, to drown yourself in wine," said the apparition.

The hallucination released him even as Javert snorted.

His head ached as though a vise had clamped around his skull; he pressed his hand to his forehead, but the tension persisted, a dull throbbing pain branching down his neck. Exhaustion pressed down upon him. How long would his mind persist in this delusion? Until he was sober once more, he supposed. Or perhaps all that alcohol had finally tipped the scales and turned him mad, and Valjean's specter was a permanent delusion. He shuddered a little at the thought.

"Enough," he said. "I grow weary of this." There was no bite to his voice, only a certain tiredness that turned his voice ragged and bleak. "You know as well as I that I have decided not to kill myself. Stop being so dramatic."

"Decided not- then you've thought of-" The grip returned to his shoulders and tightened almost to the point of pain.

"You say I mean to drown myself in wine. A poetic turn of phrase, but I'd meant to drown myself in earnest," Javert said almost dreamily, for at the moment, his head aching and the hallucination of the man who tormented him still clutching at him, he thought of the Seine with a certain wistfulness, like one does a missed opportunity. He rested his head in his hands and added, "It would have been a tidy thing. And I doubt I would have wasted the government's money with a burial. Very few who disappear into the Seine are found again."

"But why-" The hallucination was faltering now. Perhaps, with the onset of sobriety, it was weakening, though its grip was still strong upon Javert's shoulders. Javert did not bother to look up to see if his guess was correct.

"You know why," he said.

"No, I," said the apparition, and its hands trembled. "I do not. You have always been a righteous man. To take your own life-"

"A righteous man," Javert said, and laughed. It was not his noiseless laugh, or the terrible laugh that made wretches tremble. It was a low broken sound that scraped its way out of Javert's throat, a noise that wrenched itself from deep in Javert's stomach. "So I thought myself, once."

"What changed your mind?"

Javert had closed his eyes. Now he opened them. The apparition seemed even closer than before; if Javert concentrated, he could almost convince himself he could feel its breath upon his face. The specter watched him with a queer, stricken expression, its mouth pinched at the corners, its eyes at once both sorrowful and searching.

"What made me realize I was not so righteous? Or why did I not kill myself?"

The unhappy look deepened. "Both."

There was a sour taste in Javert's mouth. He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to dispel the taste, but only another drink would do, and the porter's wine jug might as well have been on the moon for all the good it would do him currently. He cleared his throat. "For the former, that is simple enough. I betrayed my position as an inspector, ignored what I knew to be my duty. I acted out of personal motives to protect a fugitive." Another broken laugh escaped him. "I set myself above the law. How can I call myself righteous?"

"You helped to save a young man's life," the specter objected.

Javert would have made a dismissive gesture, but the hallucination still held him fast. "That insurgent? He is dead. Besides, he was not the one I meant. You know that as well as I."

Something shifted in the apparition's face, turned its expression opaque. "Me? I would have gone with you willingly. I gave you my address and my false name, I-"

"___I could not arrest you_!"

The admission was almost a roar, and it made the specter flinch.

Javert found he no longer cared that it was Valjean's specter rather than the man himself. If it was his own mind he was raging against, then so be it. It was his mind's fault for keeping him from the beer, which would have left his brain blank like a slate upon which all had been wiped clean, would have kept at bay the thoughts that troubled him.

"I could not arrest you," Javert said again, quieter. "Was that not made clear when I departed from the Rue de l'Homme Arme? To arrest you would have been-" He faltered, and cursed his impending sobriety, for all the unlooked-for truths he had found upon that parapet were returning to overwhelm him, to make him tremble and wish for the dark waters of the Seine. He bowed his head once more. "It would have been an injustice," he said, lowly. "Not in the eyes of men, but of...but of God."

This was said with some difficulty. Javert felt embarrassed, as he had upon the parapet when thinking of that divine superior, of whom he had never truly contemplated until Valjean had rescued him from certain death at the barricades and set his mind asunder. That God was merciful; that a man such as Jean Valjean, once fallen, could redeem himself and be sublime; that he, Javert, could learn after fifty-two years of life that he had been wrong and that there was something more important than duty- the ideas unsettled him once more, as they had haunted him until he had downed that fourth or fifth glass of beer.

"Enough," he said, almost plaintively. "Let me have a drink. I would not think more on this."

"You have not finished," said Valjean's specter, strangely pitiless. Surely the real Valjean would have not pressed for more when it was obvious the words hurt Javert to say. "Explain why you did not- why it is you claim you have decided to live when you are killing yourself through drink."

"Cowardice," said Javert in a simple tone. The hallucination gave a terrific start and released him, blinking. Javert almost smiled at its retreat. "I had committed a most grievous act here on Earth. I had disrupted order and ignored my duty. That merited punishment, but to turn myself over to the police would mean you might be found, so I could not do that. Where could I look for discipline, if not by the police? The hereafter seemed my only option. I remembered that suicide is a sin, and I thought to myself, good, that is well, it is only sensible to turn violence upon myself and be justly punished after death." He paused. His mouth was dry. For the first time he noticed a water jug on the table. Almost sullenly he took it and drank from it until his tongue no longer stuck to the roof of his mouth. He ignored the pressure of the specter's gaze upon him. "But then I thought, Valjean, a dangerous man turned saint, had me in his power. He could have killed me, it would have been just, but instead he saved me and set me at liberty. If a mortal man can offer me mercy despite how I wronged him in the past, what can I expect from God?"

A tremor passed through him, and Javert dropped his face into his hands. He concluded, with another broken laugh half-strangling him, "I could not drown myself, not when there was a chance I might be met with mercy and forgiveness. But I could not bear my own thoughts any longer. Alcohol seemed the simplest means to silence them."

Valjean's specter said nothing.

Javert kept his head in his hands, for it seemed too much effort to lift it. For a moment he indulged in the foolish hope that his words had banished the hallucination back into the recesses of his mind. Perhaps he could even be able to seek out the porter's wine jug once more.

After a moment, something nudged at one of his elbows where it was propped upon the tabletop. When he forced himself to raise his heavy head, he found that his mind had conjured a small meal of bread and jam. He stared at it, uncomprehending. Then he laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. "What good is this to me?"

"You need to eat," said the apparition, though the words were slow and almost hesitant. "You say you do not want to die, but if you do not eat, you... You must eat."

Javert was too tired to argue. He stared for another second at the bread, wondering if it would dissolve on his tongue if he tried to eat it. He was about to rise to his feet and gather up actual food from the cupboard when the door to the kitchen opened and the portress bustled in, carrying a basket full of groceries.

Madame Bonnet gave a terrific start at the sight of him, nearly dropping her basket. "Inspector Javert!" He knew he must look a sight, his hat and cravat gone, his hair having not seen a comb in days, the very image of disarray, but that didn't explain why she stared at him as one would a ghost. "Inspector Javert, wherever have you been? Monsieur Chabouillet was here just this morning. He said you sent some strange letter to the Prefect and then vanished off the face of the earth! He seemed quite worried that something terrible had happened to you."

Before Javert could even begin to wrack his brain for a proper answer or remark that Chabouillet could have found him if he'd only searched the wine-shops, Madame Bonnet's gaze moved from him. Her expression hardened into a polite, wary look. "Good day, monsieur," she said cautiously.

She was, Javert realized, looking at the hallucination.

His blood froze in his veins. He could not breathe, could not think. The wine fumes that had slowed and muddled his thoughts were banished by sheer, horrified comprehension. One hand reached out, fumbled for the plate, felt the reality of it beneath his trembling fingers. He raised his gaze to Valjean even as Valjean took off his workman's cap and bowed politely to the portress.

"You see him," escaped Javert's lips, so faint that it was a wonder Madame Bonnet heard him.

She turned a quizzical look upon Javert. "Of course I do, monsieur. My eyes work as well as yours," she said. She might have said more, but Javert's laughter stilled her tongue.

The laughter rose up from the pit of his stomach, a harsh and terrible sound. If it hurt his ears, made his heart pound strangely, it seemed even worse for the others in the room. Madame Bonnet flinched and drew back from him. Valjean's face paled, the lines of strain deepening on his face.

"You see him, of course you see him," Javert gasped out at last. "I should have known even my mind would not be so cruel to- get out." It had been horror, first, that had banished the last vestiges of drunkenness. Horror, and then a dozen emotions, all terrible, but soon fury overwhelmed all other sentiment. He thought of all he had admitted to Valjean, of what Valjean must have thought as Javert had spoken on suicide and despair and fear of God's mercy. He saw red. His hands clenched into fists. "Get out."

Valjean made no movement save for the minute tightening of his lips.

Javert tried to leap to his feet and lunge across the table and seize Valjean by the throat. If Valjean would not go, then Javert would drag him to the front door and throw him onto the street. Surely this rage would give him the power he needed to overwhelm even Valjean's strength. Javert was almost upright when the room seemed to spin around him and grow dark, a sudden eclipse, Madame Bonnet's cry of alarm too loud in his ears.

When he opened his eyes, uncertain when he had closed them, he found himself in bed, Madame Bonnet peering anxiously at him.

For a moment he wondered at Madame Bonnet's strange expression, and then the memories returned, not in a slow trickle, but a sudden flood that made his head pound and his stomach twist unpleasantly. He closed his eyes and groaned softly, both in pain and despair.

How was it that of all the streets in Paris, Valjean had happened down that one at that particular moment? It seemed absurdly coincidental. Then again, perhaps this was his punishment. Perhaps God had decided to give him Hell here rather than in the afterlife, and Valjean was here to remind Javert of his failings.

Javert started to sit up, staring around the room in search of Valjean but not seeing him. He paused mid-struggle when Madame Bonnet said, wringing her hands, "Inspector, please stay still! Monsieur Fauchelevent has gone to fetch the doctor."

"A doctor?" Javert said. He settled back against his pillow and frowned. "I don't need one." His mouth was even drier than before. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and caught upon the back of his teeth.

Madame Bonnet's expression was dubious. "Don't need one? Inspector, you collapsed in my kitchen and Monsieur Fauchelevent had to carry you to your bed," she said, exasperation replacing some of her earlier concern. More gently, she added, "Monsieur Fauchelevent explained how you were captured by the- by the troublemakers at one of the barricades and injured."

Her gaze flickered and came to rest somewhere further down the bed. When he followed her gaze, he saw that someone, probably Valjean, had rolled up his sleeves and exposed the rope burns on his wrists. They had not bothered him in days, the lesser pain first superseded by the greater one of his mind and then later dulled by alcohol, but now as he looked at the reddened skin and blisters, some of which had burst from lack of attention, his wrists and throat began to throb.

"Oh, yes," Javert muttered with a twist of his lips. "I suppose those should be tended to." He coughed, his throat tight, and Madame Bonnet wordlessly offered him the water jug. He drank, his injuries throbbing all the more for the gesture, but at least his mouth no longer felt like a desert. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, monsieur. Should I send a note to Monsieur Chabouillet? He seemed very worried-"

"No," Javert said, unable to repress a shudder. He did not want to see the other man who thought so highly of him, did not want to see pity and disappointment on Chabouillet's face when he realized that Javert's "strange letter" had been his resignation before he sought to drink himself unconscious. "No, I do not- if anyone from the police comes, send him away."

Madame Bonnet pursed her lips and said nothing. She made a small movement of her head that Javert chose to interpret as a nod of agreement. "Drink some more water, monsieur," she said after a moment, and Javert obeyed.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made him tense. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounded queerly in his ears; he did not want to see Valjean again, did not want him to look at Javert's injuries and frown as though it pained him to see Javert suffer, did not want-

The door opened, and Valjean and a stranger came in.

"Monsieur le docteur, I assume," Javert said, and bared his teeth in a smile. He did not look at Valjean.

"Monsieur inspector," said the doctor briskly, moving to the side of the bed and setting his satchel down upon the bedside table. "Are there any other injuries besides those to your wrists and throat?"

"No," Javert said. At the doctor's implacable look, he said, irritated, "___No_. They tied me up, that is all. They were too busy with the National Guard to do anything more." He leaned back against the headrest, endured the doctor's hands upon his wrists and his throat, and repressed a hiss of pain when the man probed at one of the burst blisters.

Javert did not let himself think of Valjean, who stood near the doorway, watching, and thankfully Valjean did not speak, not even when the doctor stepped back and said, "You should have seen to these much sooner, monsieur. There is infection in a few of the blisters, and your humors are greatly disturbed."

Javert did not curse, though he would have liked to. "In other words, you need to use a needle as well as bleed me," he said flatly, and the doctor nodded. Javert sighed. "Very well, if you say it must be done."

"Let me prepare the laudanum first," the doctor said, and then turned to Madame Bonnet. "Could you heat some water? I will need to heat the needle to draw out the infection."

Paling, she nodded and backed hastily from the room.

"Laudanum," Javert said, thinking of the last time he had had to take laudanum. A fugitive had landed a lucky swing of his knife upon his arm. The prescribed laudanum had not made him euphoric as it did many; instead his thoughts had slowed and he had slept as much as a cat in the following days. He remembered that laudanum was quite easy to get one's hands on, though he had never sought it out. And yet, he thought, remembering how distant his thoughts had been, perhaps now...

He at last looked towards Valjean. He was not surprised to find Valjean ill at ease, a worried crease between his eyes and an uncertain twist to his mouth. Javert did not quite smile, but a hint of satisfaction colored his voice as he said, "Yes, I think laudanum will suit me very well."

Valjean's expression darkened. "Suit you for the procedure, you mean," he said, and there was a warning note in his voice, as though he had read Javert's thoughts.

"Of course," Javert said easily, and enjoyed the way Valjean's eyes narrowed. It was a small, petty amusement, but it warmed him nonetheless, made some of the tension he had carried in his shoulders since he had awoken in his bed ease.

The doctor looked between them, frowning, and then pressed a small vial into Javert's hand. "It will be bitter," he warned.

This time Javert couldn't quite suppress a smirk. "I have endured worse, I am sure," he muttered before he downed the tincture. He barely grimaced, though his lips wanted to pucker at the taste. He closed his eyes, hoping the laudanum's effects would take hold of him quickly. He was aware of the doctor going to the door, his voice a quiet murmur as he spoke with Valjean, Valjean's response a low rumble of sound.

"Javert," Valjean said. Javert opened his eyes to find Valjean now at the foot of his bed. Unsurprisingly, he was frowning. "Swear to me you will not turn to laudanum as you did to drink."

So Valjean had guessed his thoughts. Somehow Javert was not surprised. He allowed himself a half-mocking smirk. "And if I do not promise?"

"Then I will," Valjean said, and stopped. His shoulders tensed. He passed a hand over his face, muttering something Javert couldn't make out, and then began to pace. He did not have much room for it; Javert's room was small and cluttered, with barely enough room to hold the bed, the writing desk and chair, the bedside table, and the armoire. "Then I will take your money and give it to your portress for safe-keeping," he muttered at last.

Javert laughed. His eyelids were beginning to grow heavy, but he forced them open to fix Valjean with an amused look. "And when I find the money wherever she's hidden it?"

Valjean scowled and took a step towards the bed, looking so angry that Javert wondered if he too wished to seize Javert and shake him until he obeyed, as Javert had sought to do in the kitchen. Valjean's hands clenched at his sides, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "You said you feared the afterlife and what you might find there. If you abuse laudanum, you will die. Do I need to speak any more plainly?"

Javert's brief bout with amusement died. Already his mind was turning sluggish, his thoughts slowing to the speed of glaciers. The tincture's bitterness lingered on his lips when he licked them. "No," he said distantly, with a vague regret for the oblivion the laudanum would have offered him in the ensuing days. "You've made your point, Monsieur le Maire."

"Valjean," came the correction, but the anger had ebbed from Valjean's voice, replaced by some gentler emotion that Javert could only hope was not pity.

Javert made a quiet sound of agreement in his throat. He should say something, he thought, to explain the slip, but his tongue was thick in his mouth and he was too tired to try and speak. He closed his eyes instead, and let the laudanum pull him into slumber.

* * *

Awareness returned slowly, the throbbing in his head dragging him rather grudgingly from the painless state of unconsciousness. When Javert opened his eyes, he found himself alone.

Someone had left a plate of food and the water jug on the bedside table, as well as a single lit candlestick. He frowned at them even as he fumbled for the water jug, his throat dry and the inside of his mouth foul. It was only once he'd set the jug back down that he noticed the bandages around his wrists and felt a light pressure against his throat that must be bandages as well. He left them alone, concentrated instead on breaking off a piece of bread and forcing himself to eat. The bread tasted like ashes, but he chewed methodically. At least the food made his headache lessen somewhat and his stomach stop aching, although that only made him more aware of the throbbing of his rope burns and blisters.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Madame Bonnet peered inside. Her anxious air turned to one of relief. "Monsieur Javert," she said, stepping further into the room. "You slept quite a while!"

"That is how the laudanum takes me," Javert said. "Where is-" He remembered almost too late to swallow back the name that rose to his lips. "Where is Monsieur Fauchelevent?"

"Gone, monsieur," Madame Bonnet said. Something in his face made her add a trifle hastily, "He said he had to get back home, but that he would return tomorrow afternoon."

Javert sighed in exasperation, not at all surprised to learn that Valjean had decided to invite himself back to the apartment. "Of course he did," he said. He remembered how Valjean had glowered at him and fussed at him like some mother-hen. Doubtless Valjean wished to assure himself that Javert would not begin to abuse laudanum or resume his drinking.

He looked around, frowning as something nagged at him. At last he realized what was wrong. "Madame, where are my coats?" He stared at the half-open armoire, wherein he could see empty spaces where both his greatcoat and his summer-coat should have been.

Madame Bonnet looked puzzled. Then her expression cleared. "Monsieur Fauchelevent took them. He said you needed them washed and patched up, and that he would see to it." She stared, eyes widening in confusion, when Javert laughed.

The laudanum-haze had not quite left him, his anger still a distant thing, but he nevertheless muttered, "Damn the man," under his breath, unmuddled just enough to be irritated. "Does he think I won't resort to walking out to the nearest wine-shop in my shirtsleeves if I want a drink that badly?" And even if Javert wasn't that desperate, surely he need only speak to the porter to get some wine.

"That Monsieur Fauchelevent is a strange one, if you don't mind me saying so," Madame Bonnet said with an uncertain look. "Begging your pardon, monsieur, for it's obvious he is a friend of yours." Before he could correct her on that, she continued. "Do you know, he gave us three napoleons if Pierre would pour out all the wine in the house? Even when we told him that wine only cost us about ten francs, he insisted upon the promised sixty francs!"

She drew back a little when something that was more of a snarl than a laugh escaped Javert's lips. "Of course he did. I suppose he ensured that the doctor did not leave any laudanum as well."

He did not curse at the portress's nod, but it was a very near thing.

"Do you need anything, inspector?" Madame Bonnet asked tentatively. Her gaze lingered on the empty plate. "The doctor said you might be hungry or thirsty when you awoke. I have more bread."

___I want to be left alone_, Javert wanted to snarl, his irritation increasing with the lessening of the laudanum haze. Still, there was no reason to be rude to the woman. He would much rather direct all his anger upon a more deserving, albeit absent, target: Valjean. Besides, his throat ___was_ still dry.

"Some more water, perhaps," he said.

Madame Bonnet snatched up the jug; she looked almost relieved to have something to do. "I'll be back in a moment, monsieur."

Javert leaned back against the pillow once she had gone. He closed his eyes and laid there for a moment, attempting to gather his strength, though the headache and the ache in his wrists and throat seemed to leech it away. His hands trembled where they rested upon the blankets, and he could feel sweat beading his forehead. After a long moment, he sat up straighter and surveyed the room once more.

He caught sight of his boots placed neatly at the foot of his bed. Despite himself, a faint smirk played upon his lips. "Well, it seems I will only have to walk the streets in my shirtsleeves, not barefoot, if I wish for wine," was said in a sardonic mutter. He shook his head, still exasperated that Valjean had actually made off with his coats. Damn the man's meddlesome nature.

He was frowning when Madame Bonnet reentered.

"Here, monsieur," she said, setting the jug on the table. Then she hesitated, a look passing over her face that came and went too quickly for him to interpret. "Are you certain you don't wish to see Monsieur Chabouillet? I am quite certain that he will return. He seemed very worried about-" She faltered briefly, then seemed to steel herself. "About your state of mind after being held prisoner, and now that Monsieur Fauchelevent explained how you've been wandering the streets in a daze from your injuries, I…." She trailed off and bit at her lower lip, frowning.

Had she really accepted that premise? Surely he reeked of beer. Still, when he searched her face, he found no rebuke or even pity, just honest concern. "I am certain," he said, striving to keep his tone even. "Send him away if he comes."

"Very well," she said, though she frowned. "And Monsieur Fauchelevent?"

"Oh, send him in," Javert muttered with a dry laugh. "I owe him an argument about my coats."

Madame Bonnet looked politely confused. "Very well. If you need anything else, monsieur, call for me." She watched for Javert's nod of acknowledgment and then departed, closing the door softly behind her.

Javert had not wanted her company, but he found, after a moment, that the room grew unbearably quiet without anyone else's presence. There were no distractions now; even his headache had lessened to the point that it was mostly bearable, his wrists and throat subsided to a dull ache. There were no diversions to keep him from his thoughts.

"Damn," he muttered, closing his eyes once more and desperately trying to convince himself he was tired. It did not work; it skirted too closely to an untruth, and if he had never lied to others, he had certainly never lied to himself. He was not tired. In fact, he felt wide awake, the laudanum's lethargy gone, his mind teeming once more with the same bleak thoughts that had driven him from the parapet and into the nearest wine-shop.

Javert swore again. He wished the doctor had ignored Valjean and left a little laudanum, if just to let him sleep until morning. He pondered his options for a moment. He could not go outside, but perhaps the porter had hidden away some wine. Surely Monsieur Bonnet hadn't given all of it to Valjean, no matter that Valjean had given him those sixty francs.

Despite the potential of wine with which to numb his thoughts again, Javert could not bring himself to get up from the bed. He scowled. If his current level of luck held, Madame Bonnet would overhear his query to her husband, shoo Javert back to bed, and dispose of the wine. Doubtless, he thought bitterly, Valjean had swayed her to his side and she would help to keep wine and all other means of distractions from him.

He tried to expunge the thoughts that raced through his mind, struggled to wipe his mind clean through sheer will, but his efforts were of little use. He did not want to contemplate of all the ways Valjean had undone him, shaken his certainty in the natural order of things, revealed that there was a greater part of life than duty, but he could not do otherwise without the aid of wine or laudanum.

There must be another means of distraction that he had not considered. He thought of reading, but he was certain he would not be able to concentrate enough upon the book to be properly diverted. He studied his wrists for a moment. A theory crept into his mind then, one which surely would have made Valjean lose his temper had he known of it. Javert smiled grimly. Well, Valjean was not here to stop him.

He tested his idea by gripping his left wrist with his other hand and then tightening his hold. The blisters and rope burns protested the pressure with a white-hot pain that temporarily banished all thought. Once he could think again, he caught his breath and frowned. The test had succeeded in wiping his mind clean for a minute or two, but it seemed like an inelegant method that would only distract him for brief intervals. Besides, if his injuries worsened through this abuse, Valjean would certainly notice.

"If he has already stooped to stealing my coats, I do not think I want to know how he would react to this," he muttered, looking ruefully at the small spot of red that had begun to appear upon the white bandages. He thought of Valjean's callused hands, firm and unyielding upon his arms, and considered how Valjean might even go so far as to tie Javert to the bed until his injuries were healed.

Javert warmed at the thought. From anger, he told himself, and aggravation at this discomforting punishment God had decided to administer in the form of Valjean. He swore again, this time silently. Would that Valjean had not chosen to walk down that particular street and found him! Would that Javert had been allowed to drink to oblivion for even just one more day!

"Would that I have never heard the name Jean Valjean," he concluded gloomily into the silence of his room.


	2. Forgiveness With Teeth

"What no one ever talks about  
is how dangerous hope can be.  
Call it forgiveness  
with teeth."

-"Change Came to Me Like a Crooked Beast" by Clementine von Radics

* * *

Valjean returned the following afternoon, bringing with him the doctor and Madame Bonnet. His hands were conspicuously empty of Javert's coats. Javert narrowed his eyes; he felt vaguely trapped, as though he were some beast that the doctor, the portress, and Valjean had treed.

"I need to check your wounds, monsieur," the doctor said, looking with a worried frown at the bloodstained bandages. He hesitated, and cast a queer sideways glance towards Valjean before he refocused his gaze on Javert's wrists. "It will be a trifle painful, but not enough to warrant laudanum," he added.

Well, Valjean might have lied to Madame Bonnet about Javert's state when Valjean had stumbled upon him, but it seemed, Javert thought sourly, that he had told enough of the truth to the doctor for the man to be uneasy. He pursed his lips and pointedly did not look at Valjean as he said, "That is fine. Laudanum disagrees with me."

The doctor was apparently the sort to talk to himself, for he muttered unhappily under his breath he peeled away the bandages and scowled at the state of Javert's injuries. Valjean had settled himself in the far corner of the room, arms crossed against his chest and an intent look upon his face. Madame Bonnet, for her part, had blanched at the sight of the bloodstains, which he had concealed from her when she'd brought him his breakfast, and now stared fixedly at the wall.

"I need to clean the wounds," announced the doctor a few minutes later. "And the bandages will need changing twice a day to keep off further infection." He turned towards Madame Bonnet. "Shall I show you how to do it?"

"_Me_, monsieur?" said the portress faintly. Javert had thought her pale before; now he knew she could go even whiter, all color gone from her face. She began to wring her hands. "M-monsieur le docteur, I cannot bear the sight of, of blood, I cannot-"

"I know how to bandage wounds," Valjean remarked from his corner.

Javert laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound that made Madame Bonnet flinch and the doctor wince. "No," he said flatly. He bared his teeth, feeling even more like a trapped beast. "You will not touch me."

Valjean regarded him steadily, apparently unimpressed by Javert's glare. "Your injuries must be properly treated," he said. "And the doctor can scarcely abandon his other patients because you refuse to let me help you."

"You have done enough," Javert snarled. His hands twitched in his lap, and he resisted the urge to snatch up the water jug and fling it at Valjean's face. Maybe that would banish that maddeningly calm look. "You must know that you are not wanted here!"

Much to Javert's exasperation, Valjean almost smiled at that, the corner of his eyes creasing. "I had noticed, yes," he said. "I disregarded the fact."

Fury made it difficult to think, much less speak. "You will not touch me," Javert repeated, voice thick with rage. When Valjean's expression remained set, Javert turned to the doctor and said, "Show me how to bandage my own wrists. I still have use of my hands, I am certain I can manage it."

The doctor hesitated, his gaze swinging between Valjean and Javert. "I do not think that is a good idea, monsieur," he said hesitantly. "You need to rest, not go about bandaging your own wounds….."

"Then Monsieur Bonnet," Javert said, almost desperately. He imagined Valjean's hands upon him once more and flushed hot. No, he might have agreed to give way on the laudanum, but he would be damned, both literally and figuratively, before he would let Valjean play nursemaid to him.

"I do not think Pierre should be let anywhere near your injuries, monsieur," Madame Bonnet said. The direction of her gaze had reverted back to the wall, though color had not yet returned to her face.

"Then, then-" Javert groped desperately for another solution. He found none. With a snarl that even to his own ears sounded barely human, he gave in to temptation and flung the jug at Valjean's head.

It was a pitiful attempt, his strength sapped by days of drinking and lack of sleep; Valjean caught the jug easily. He looked down at it, an unreadable look on his face. "I think he needs more water, madame," he said at last, and handed the jug off to Madame Bonnet even as Javert choked on his incensed laughter.

The doctor cleared his throat. Javert ignored him in favor of glaring at Valjean, and after a moment the doctor said slowly, "Madame, would you assist me in the kitchen? I'll need some warm water to properly clean the wounds."

"Yes, of course." Madame Bonnet sounded relieved, though whether she was glad to escape the sight of bloodstained bandages or because she wished to flee before Javert threw something else, Javert wasn't entirely certain.

There was the sound of retreating footsteps and the door clicking shut, but Javert did not look away from Valjean. Baring his teeth had not kept Valjean at bay before, but Javert still snarled when Valjean unfolded his arms and began a slow approach to the bed.

"I will have my way on this," Valjean said. Javert recognized the tone. It was Monsieur Madeleine's implacable tone, the one that said he would not be swayed, no matter how someone might try to change his mind. "Your wounds need to be tended. You _will_ let me change your bandages since Madame Bonnet cannot." Confusion crept into his face then, his severe look softening in his bafflement. "I wish you would see reason, Javert. While I realize you dislike-"

"While I _dislike_ you?" Javert laughed again, bitter. He looked around for something else to throw, but there was nothing at hand. Besides, he thought sourly, doubtless a second attempt would be even more pitiful than the first. "It is more than that, Valjean." He ignored the pain in his throat, the wounds stinging in protest at the force of his words. "You exasperate me, you and your acts of mercy, you and your horrified look when I confessed how I'd wished to die-" His throat tightened until he could not breathe. He finally managed to say, "If I did not think I would fall flat on my face in the attempt, I would take you by the throat and throw you onto the street. Your very face maddens me."

Valjean stared at him, his eyes wide. Ridiculously, he almost looked hurt by Javert's words, as though he truly didn't understand Javert's resentment. Then his expression firmed, a frown settling upon his lips. He said flatly, "Well, you will have to endure my company until the doctor says you are healed."

Javert opened his mouth to protest or perhaps simply to curse, but the doctor announced his presence by clearing his throat. "The water will be ready in a few minutes, monsieur. In the meantime I would speak to you." The doctor looked uneasy. "In private."

If Javert had not been distracted wondering what Valjean had told the doctor, he might have been amused at Valjean's startled look. "You heard the man, go wait in the hallway," he said. Belatedly, he added, "And return my coats!"

"I will return your coats when the doctor says you are recovered enough to leave the house," Valjean said mildly, and went out before Javert could think of a proper retort.

"Monsieur," said the doctor. He did not quite meet Javert's eyes. "I hope you do not think me forward, but Monsieur Fauchelevent mentioned you have not been, well, been in the best of spirits-"

"Are you a priest?"

The doctor stared at him. "What? No."

"Then keep your business to the physical," Javert said curtly.

The doctor pursed his lips and seemed to come to a decision. "Very well. As your doctor, however, let me tell you that if you reopen your wounds as you did last night, you will have to endure Monsieur Fauchelevent's company for quite some time. Since that idea seems displeasing to you…." He trailed off, but his meaning was plain.

"Is there really no one else who might come and change the bandages?" Javert asked. He did not sigh when the doctor shook his head in denial, but it was a very near thing. He muttered under his breath, "Very well, I asked for punishment. Why should I shrink away now?"

If the doctor heard this remark, he gave no sign, simply retreated from the room and returned a few minutes later, with Valjean, a fresh set of bandages, and a pot of warm water. Javert gritted his teeth and reclined back against the pillows. Slowly he forced his body to relax, until the only tension he carried was in his jaw.

"You will have to come closer than that," the doctor said a trifle dryly.

Javert almost smirked at Valjean's muttered, "Does he have anything left to throw?"

"I don't," he said, and then closed his eyes. That was a mistake, for several of his other senses compensated to torment him. The rustling of Valjean's clothes as he neared the bed sounded too loud in Javert's ears. Javert kept his jaw set and breathed through his nose as the doctor slowly peeled away the old bandages and began to clean the wounds. He tried to distract himself by focusing on keeping his breaths deep and steady, but he was acutely aware of Valjean's presence.

The doctor murmured instructions and explanations that Javert let go in one ear and out the other. Occasionally the man's speech paused and was answered by a mutter of acknowledgement on Valjean's part. These quiet sounds raised the hair on the back of Javert's neck and ignited his imagination, though he still refused to open his eyes. He pictured Valjean leaning over the bed, imagined his intent expression, that contemplative furrow in his brow that he'd so often worn as Monsieur Madeline poring over Javert's reports, now directed at the doctor's work.

Javert did not sigh in relief when the doctor at last stepped away and announced he was finished, but it was a very near thing. He ventured to open his eyes, and immediately regretted it, for while the doctor was now moving towards the door, old bandages in his arms, Valjean had not moved.

"What?" Javert said, for Valjean's gaze lingered on Javert's throat and he was frowning. He had the absurd notion to tug up his collar and shield the bandaged wounds from view. He felt strangely exposed, which was patently ridiculous. Had Valjean not seen him bound in the very martingale which had caused the wounds? He remembered the other man's closeness as Valjean had cut him free, how Javert could have counted the lines at the corners of Valjean's eyes if he'd had the inclination. Fighting back heat that wanted to creep into his face and resisting once more to tug at his collar, Javert snapped, "_What_?"

"Nothing," Valjean said, but he still frowned. Finally, when Javert pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at him, Valjean relented. The words were spoken slowly and awkwardly. "I only wonder how it is you came to be just outside the sewers when you-that is, when you were injured and should have been recovering here."

"I had my duty," Javert said stiffly. "My injuries were not severe, and Monsieur le Prefect needed me there to ensure no insurgents escaped." Despite the pain in his wrists and throat and his frustration at Valjean's presence, he couldn't quite stifle the twist of his lips or his rueful remark of, "Though Monsieur Gisquet would have been better served by a different man there, for he would have arrested an old jailbird and a dying insurgent for the price of one."

"I would say I am glad it was you, but doubtless you would take it amiss," Valjean said, tone neutral, though there was a glint in his eyes that Javert disliked, one that seemed half-amused.

"Then it is good you didn't say so," Javert said dryly.

"And the boy still lives," Valjean said. Surprisingly, he did not seem pleased by this, his lips twisting downward as though he'd bitten into something sour. "He is feverish and the doctor does not know if he will survive, but so far-"

"You speak as though I care," Javert said.

Valjean raised an eyebrow. "You _did_ help save his life. Are you not curious about his fate?"

"I only helped him because I thought he was dying," Javert muttered, "and thought it best to bring his corpse to his family."

Valjean looked disbelieving, but did not argue. "Well, he lives. The doctor told me today that if he survives the next week or so, he may yet recover."

Javert opened his mouth. Then he actually looked at Valjean and paused. For the first time he noticed a certain grayness to Valjean's skin, the shadows under the man's eyes.

"You have been visiting the boy as well?" he asked with a twist of his lips, unsurprised at Valjean's slow nod. Javert resettled himself against his pillow, folded his bandaged arms carefully across his chest. "You ask why I did not rest after the barricades. I might ask why you have not done the same. Dragging a near-corpse through miles of sewer is quite a feat, even for you, and now you tell me you have been frequenting two different bedsides. Did you at least take a carriage here? Surely you didn't walk all the way from…." Valjean looked away, and Javert snorted. "I thought as much. Go away and rest. Having you drop dead from exhaustion would be a pretty thing to explain to my landlady."

Valjean folded his arms against his chest. The corners of his mouth turned down. "A moment more of your time, and then I will leave and return tomorrow," he said, still not looking at Javert.

"Yes, well?" Javert said impatiently when Valjean fell silent.

"You hold yourself to too high a standard. Even in Montreuil-sur-Mur, you would have had me dismiss you for a single mistake-"

"Not a mistake, in the end," Javert said. He watched Valjean warily now, with a grim, creeping suspicion that he knew where this speech of Valjean's was heading.

"You asked for your dismissal over a single _perceived_ mistake," Valjean continued, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone, though his expression was still reserved. "You do the same today. You say you betrayed your position, but does your decision to let me remain at liberty truly destroy every good thing you have done in your career?" Now Valjean did turn to look at him, and spread his hands almost pleadingly. "The police need officers like you, Javert. Honorable men. Will you abandon your post?"

Javert's jaw had tightened with every word of Valjean's speech until it was a wonder his teeth had not cracked from the force with which he was grinding them together. It took him a moment to convince his jaw to unlock and his mouth to shape words. "Enough," he said roughly. "I cannot ignore that I forsook my duty. I should be punished, but since the police cannot punish me-"

"You must punish yourself?" Valjean said sharply. "If you insist on this foolishness, let me suggest a different punishment. Return to your position as inspector, convinced you do not deserve it. Continue your work, but deal out mercy as well as justice. You said once that it was easy to be kind but difficult to be just. Perhaps that is true for most, but I think it is not so with you. Devote yourself to the difficulty of kindness and mercy."

Javert stared. Thoughts dashed against each other and dissolved like waves upon the sand. He could not summon up a proper argument. "You are absurd," he muttered at last through clenched teeth.

"I could say the same of you," Valjean retorted.

"And you speak as though the police force is full of criminals," Javert said, and narrowed his eyes at Valjean's low, mirthless chuckle. "And that I am somehow important-"

"How is it that you are so hard on yourself, and yet seem to turn a blind eye to the failings of your fellow officers?" Valjean mumbled half under his breath. Louder, exasperated, as though Javert were the one being foolish, he continued. "And if you are not important, then why did a Monsieur Chabouillet come looking for you yesterday? Madame Bonnet said he seemed quite concerned about your disappearance. Surely you-"

He broke off as the door opened and the doctor stuck his head in, frowning. "I thought I heard raised voices, monsieurs," the doctor said. He looked uneasily between them; whatever he saw in their expressions made his frown deepen. "The inspector really should be resting."

Valjean's frustrated look shifted to one of stiff politeness. He nodded towards the doctor. "You are right, monsieur. I will return tomorrow afternoon," he said. He darted a glance at Javert, said something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Perhaps you will see reason then." The doctor had opened the door fully, and Valjean started towards the exit.

Javert glared after him, not bothering to hide his temper. It was just like Valjean to leave an argument wholly unresolved, much less mid-sentence. "But we are not finished," he objected, sitting up straighter. Valjean did not even pause. Javert called after him, for Valjean could not be allowed to have the last word, "At least return my coats tomorrow!"

"No," Valjean said over his shoulder, and disappeared through the doorway as Javert growled.

The doctor lingered for a moment. He seemed to be studying Javert, who forced himself to relax back against the pillow. The doctor pursed his lips. "I will come in the morning and change your bandages then, check your humors and watch for any signs of further infection," he said. "Should I leave bandages for Monsieur Fauchelevent with your portress?"

"Yes," Javert said. He shifted on the bed, still frustrated. It was unfair of Valjean to leave when they were not done fighting. It was even worse of him to say these things, to try and tempt him back onto the force. He thought of returning to the police-station, of all the paperwork that had doubtless piled up on his desk, of all the criminals he had yet to arrest. His hands clenched and unclenched; his chest tightened. A wry smile curved his lips. "It surely cannot be a punishment if I want it," he muttered under his breath.

"Monsieur?"

With a start, he realized that the doctor was still there. Javert blinked at the other man, tried to remember what they had been speaking on. "Leaving the bandages with Madame Bonnet will be fine," he said. When the doctor still did not leave, he raised an eyebrow. "Is there anything else?"

"Only that you should eat hearty meals for the next few days to regain your strength."

"I am certain Madame Bonnet will see to that," Javert said dryly, remembering the way she had pressed food upon him the night before and that morning.

"Then I would only suggest some more rest, monsieur. I will see you tomorrow." With a slight bow, the doctor took his leave and left Javert to his thoughts.

* * *

The knock upon Javert's door was quiet but firm. Javert studied the door. Madame Bonnet's knock was forceful, the doctor's uneasy, and Monsieur Bonnet did not venture up the stairs to knock upon anyone's door. If it were Chabouillet, he would probably be calling Javert's name. Therefore, Javert reasoned, it must be Valjean.

Javert sat upright. He eyed the door once more. Doubtless his expression more befitted a man about to face the guillotine, but he did not bother to change his look. Let Valjean see his grimness and know he meant business. Briefly, he went over the argument he had been preparing since Valjean had quitted their argument yesterday like a coward. He would dissuade Valjean of his certainty that Javert's dereliction of duty was a minor, forgivable mistake and his absurd notion that Javert should return to his post.

No, Valjean would not get the final word this time. "Come in," he said at the second, firmer knock.

Valjean entered juggling bandages and a small basin. The portress followed behind him with soap and a second basin of water. At least Valjean seemed to have slept, for the grayness was gone from his face. That was good. Javert wanted him clear-headed for the continuation of their argument, in which Valjean would be forced to admit he was mistaken and Javert correct.

"If you need anything more, monsieur, please let me know," Madame Bonnet said. She settled her basin and the bar of soap carefully upon the bedside table, next to Javert's empty plate of food. She took the empty plate with her, closing the door quietly.

"You didn't bring my coats," Javert said.

Valjean's expression twisted, half-amused, half-disbelieving, as though he thought Javert was joking but wasn't quite certain. "I said I wouldn't," he answered, setting his burdens down next to Madame Bonnet's basin. "Not until the doctor says you are recovered."

"I suppose I should be grateful that you did not take my boots as well," Javert said.

The corners of Valjean's mouth turned up. "The thought did cross my mind," he admitted. He removed his gloves, tucking them into a pocket of his coat. "But I did not think I could justify it to your landlady."

Javert snorted.

Valjean drew up the chair to Javert's bed. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it across the back of the chair. His shirt and waistcoast were plain and a little worn, but still serviceable, Javert noted. But then, he reflected, even as Madeleine Valjean had not worn the latest fashions but had kept his clothes simple.

Then Valjean began to roll up his sleeves.

Javert gave a little start of surprise. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Valjean raised a puzzled gaze to him, one sleeve rolled up to his elbow, the other still concealing his wrist. "I am trying to keep from getting my cuffs wet," he said slowly. "Do you have some objection?"

Javert tried not to stare at Valjean's exposed skin, the pale scars there left by Toulon, but he could not drag his gaze away. His mouth was dry, suddenly, the room too warm. He licked his lips, muttered after a second, "Of course I do. What if Madame Bonnet comes in unexpectedly? How will you explain your scars?"

"I asked her not to disturb us. I trust she will stay downstairs," Valjean said. Without waiting for a reply, he rolled up the second sleeve to his elbow and began to wash his hands in the first basin, scrubbing briskly at his skin with the soap.

Javert had known this would be torturous, but he had thought the torment would begin once Valjean had actually laid hands upon him, not before.

He shifted uneasily on the bed, unsettled by the flexing of Valjean's forearms and the quick, certain movements of Valjean's hands. It all seemed strangely intimate, though he must have seen Valjean exposed like this before at Toulon. Still, he could not recall such a memory, his thoughts all disjointed.

Javert tore his gaze away so that he could fiddle with his own shirt. He rolled up his cuffs just past his swathed wrists, undid the exact amount of buttons at his throat it would take to expose the bandages and no more. When he looked up again, Valjean was drying his hands on his waistcoast.

"Well," Valjean said, turning towards him. His expression was calm, almost reserved. Apparently he was unbothered being nearly undressed, Javert thought crossly. "Did the doctor leave any more instructions before we begin?"

Javert was not tempted to lie, but for a moment he did wish the doctor had left some manner of instruction for Valjean, if only to delay for another moment longer. "No," he muttered and then forced a smirk upon his lips that doubtless seemed more of a grimace. "Now shall we get this over with?"

Valjean said nothing, only reached for Javert's right wrist.

Javert gritted his teeth and endured the touch. He had not thought to worry that Valjean might handle him delicately, like some fragile thing, but now he found himself almost relieved as Valjean unwound the bandages with deliberate movements. He did not let himself study Valjean's furrowed brow or allow his gaze to linger upon Valjean's hands. Instead he focused his eyes upon the far corner of the room and kept them fixed there as Valjean washed and re-bandaged his wrists.

It was only once Valjean's hand moved towards Javert's throat that he balked. He tensed, something like disquiet tightening his stomach.

Valjean paused. His hand hovered in mid-air, fingertips almost but not quite brushing the bandages. "You must relax. I do not think being so tense is good for the wounds," he said.

Javert could not comprehend his tone, though he did not sound annoyed. Unwillingly, he forced his gaze back towards Valjean and saw that the other man's expression was equally undecipherable. He tried to force himself to relax, but his muscles remained tense, the bandages suddenly too tight around his throat.

"Javert," Valjean said, not quite gently.

"Were you truly not tempted?" Javert asked, which was not what he had intended to say at all. When Valjean looked blank, Javert huffed out an exasperated breath. "At the barricades? You had the knife, you had me-"

Valjean's expression darkened. "No," he said. "I was not. I thought- when you did not arrest me, I thought you understood- do you truly believe me to be a man who would commit murder?"

"No," Javert said slowly. He wished Valjean would lower his hand. It made it difficult to think. The words were dragged from him slowly, almost reluctantly. "I know you are not, but I still don't know why you were not tempted, even a little."

Valjean said nothing for a moment. His expression had eased somewhat at Javert's admission, the darkness leaving his features. Now he looked almost puzzled. "The thought of killing you never crossed my mind. Why would it?"

Javert laughed. The incredulous sound was half-strangled by the bandages. "Have you no self-preservation at all, Valjean? One flick of your knife and you would have been safe from discovery. You might have had your revenge. It would have been just. Instead you released me, and then went still further, giving me your false name and your address. What sort of man gifts his enemy with an invitation to arrest him?"

Valjean hesitated once more. He muttered something under his breath.

"Speak up," Javert demanded. He did not quite lean forward, when that meant moving into Valjean's touch, for the other man's hand still hung suspended between them, but he did sharpen his tone. "I have answered your questions, you will answer mine."

Louder, through gritted teeth, Valjean said, "You were never my enemy, Javert, only a man doing his duty. And I was…tired."

Javert was not certain how he had expected Valjean to answer him, but this was not it. He stared. He examined this peculiar response, and ignored the first strange sentence in favor of the second. "You were _tired_?"

"Tired," Valjean repeated. His shoulders were tense, his gaze lowered. Just saying the word seemed to have brought the weariness to bear once more upon him. His hand finally lowered to rest upon the edge of the bed; it clenched and unclenched into a fist. The words came slowly, almost as reluctantly as Javert's earlier admission. "I was tired of hiding, of constantly looking over my shoulder, of answering to the name Fauchelevent and never my own. For the past eight years, I had- have endured it for Cosette. She made- makes life bearable. But I knew she would soon have no need of me if I could get the boy away from the barricades. What use will she have of an old ex-convict once she has a husband? And then you were there, and it seemed…right."

Javert, who had not understood most of Valjean's speech, seized upon the one thing he comprehended. "Cosette. That-" He checked the first word that sprang to his lips, for he would not get an answer if he enraged Valjean with thoughtless words. "That woman's child is still with you?"

Valjean did not quite smile, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Javert did not recognize, something suspiciously like tenderness. "I raised her as I promised Fantine I would. If the boy lives, he and Cosette will be married."

Javert laughed mirthlessly. "I had not thought to wonder why you were there," he said. "It seemed inevitable. So you were there to rescue the girl's lover from his foolishness."

"Were it not for the boy's foolishness, you would have been killed by one of those men's bullets," Valjean said, though there was no reproach in his voice.

"Not so," Javert said offhandedly. "They would not have wasted a bullet on me. They would have found some other means."

He was a little puzzled by the way Valjean's eyes narrowed, as though Javert had offered an insult rather than a mere correction of the facts. "Why do you speak of your own murder as one would remark upon the weather?" Valjean asked.

Javert blinked at Valjean's exasperated tone. Dark humor briefly made his lips twitch. He raised an eyebrow. "Why do you seem more upset over my death than your own life imprisonment?" he countered.

Valjean muttered something under his breath again, but this time when Javert motioned for him to repeat himself, Valjean ignored him. Instead Valjean turned back to the water basin and muttered, "We should finish this."

The return of Javert's earlier unease banished the brief moment of morbid amusement. He touched the bandages at his throat, pursed his lips. The lump of disquiet had returned to his stomach, twisted now into an intricate knot. "I know the doctor said-"

"No," Valjean said without looking at him, and Javert scowled.

"You did not let me finish."

"You are going to try to argue that you can clean and bandage your own wounds," Valjean said, dampening a piece of linen in the water. He fiddled with the wet linen for a moment before he draped it over the edge of the basin and then turned back to Javert. His look was resolute. "We are going to follow the doctor's orders."

Javert tensed once more as Valjean's hand rose towards his throat, flinching before he could repress the movement.

Valjean paused. Something like frustration twisted his features. "Will you let me do this? It will only take a moment if you would relax and keep still."

"Then do it," snapped Javert. His hands had curled into fists at his sides. He folded his arms against his chest, tried to ignore the way his heart pounded in his ears, how his rapid heartbeat seemed to reverberate against the bandages. Unconsciously, his lips had drawn away from his teeth, but Valjean did not seem dissuaded by his snarl.

Valjean bent to his task, but his hands were not as steady as they had been upon Javert's wrists. They shook a little with agitation; his fingers fumbled with the bandages, drawing the bandages tighter until Javert hissed a warning. Valjean's hands stilled. He took a deep breath. There was a flush upon his cheeks. "Forgive me," he muttered. He made another attempt, his hands somewhat steadier.

Valjean unpeeled the bandages at last, set them aside. Then he drew the damp linen gently across the marks the martingale had left behind. Even that light pressure caused tiny pinpricks of discomfort where the rope had rubbed Javert's skin raw.

Javert welcomed the pain, for it was a good distraction from the way Valjean's face was too near to his own, close enough that Javert could almost feel Valjean's breath upon his mouth in some terrible parody of a kiss. He immediately regretted that particular turn of thought, for it seemed content to linger and infect the rest of his mind.

Still, anyone who entered the room unexpectedly would doubtless misunderstand what was transpiring, he thought darkly. His mouth was dry again. He wished Valjean was not so careful and meticulous. Surely the man could be quicker about cleaning the wounds. Javert wetted his lips with his tongue, muttered, "I still think that I could do this myself." If his voice was a little hoarse it was only from the pain of his injuries, he told himself.

Valjean ignored him. Javert was not entirely surprised.

"You need to lower your head," Valjean said after another moment.

Javert grimaced, though he did not object. Still, he could not help feeling that the gesture would be an act of submission, though he knew it was only meant to allow better access to the back of his neck.

Reluctantly, he bowed his head.

There seemed to be a pause but before Javert could wonder at it, the delay was explained by the wet press of the linen to his neck. Valjean must have kept the linen in the basin overlong this time; the linen was soaked through rather than merely damp. Tepid water dripped down Javert's neck, sliding under his collar and making him shudder.

"Sorry," Valjean muttered. He drew the linen away, then thumbed at one of the droplets as it made its way down Javert's neck. Valjean's thumb dragged lightly across Javert's skin, leaving goose bumps and raised hairs in its wake.

The knot in Javert's stomach gave way to sudden, traitorous warmth. A sound escaped Javert's lips before he could stifle it.

The noise had been quiet, but Valjean must have heard, for his hand paused and then cupped the back of Javert's neck, resting lightly there. "Javert?" There was concern in the low rumble, and even the way his name fell from Valjean's lips was too much.

Javert could not think. The bandages were gone but he still felt as though he were being strangled. He felt raw all over, like the rope burns encompassed his entire body instead of merely his wrists and throat. "Enough," he muttered through his teeth, only half-aware of what he was saying. He twitched violently, as though he could throw off Valjean's hand with the sudden gesture, like a horse trying to shake off a fly. "Must you- you are too _gentle_-" The last word came out sounding like a curse.

"What? Would you have me punish you?" Valjean demanded, exasperated once more.

Javert laughed, a low, despairing sound. "You are a ninny," he snarled. He raised his head and found Valjean half-bent over the bed, staring at him, puzzled and disturbed.

He should not have looked up. They were too close once more. Valjean's breath ghosted against his lips in another mockery of a kiss. When Valjean's frown deepened, Javert was tormented by the way the corners of his mouth pinched, the taunting swell of his lower lip as Valjean pursed his lips but did not speak.

"You annoy me," Javert said, almost helplessly. "I wish you would take your gentleness and-" The words caught in his throat, choked him until he could not breathe. He laughed again at Valjean's bewildered look. He was still laughing, quiet and self-mocking, as he caught hold of Valjean's collar and tugged Valjean closer.

Their lips met clumsily, Javert's parted in laughter, Valjean's parted in surprise. Their teeth clacked together, a curious sound half-lost beneath Valjean's startled gasp. Valjean muttered something against Javert's mouth, but Javert half-swallowed the words and stopped up his ears.

His hand still clutched Valjean's collar; he felt the fabric bunch under his fingers as Valjean shifted away from him. Valjean's lips, soft where they were not slightly chapped, were suddenly out of reach. Javert released Valjean's collar with extreme reluctance. Then he opened his eyes, wondering distantly when he had closed them.

Valjean was staring. Astonishment had wiped all other sentiment from his face. Javert had not thought anyone could turn that red, but even the tips of Valjean's ears where they poked out from under his white hair were pink. Valjean blinked slowly. His lips, when he moved to speak, seemed a little swollen; Javert wondered if they tingled as much as his did.

"Javert, I," Valjean said. He stopped, passed a hand over his face. He lurched upright and began to pace. Javert's gaze followed him as he stalked back and forth across the small, cramped room. "Javert, you- you kissed me-"

Half-mad laughter welled up at the astonished tone, as though Valjean could still not quite believe it. Javert bit down on the laughter and did not let it escape his lips. Yes, this was precisely why Javert had not wanted Valjean to speak, though he supposed he should be glad that the surprise had not given way immediately to disgust. He ignored the way his heart still pounded unsteadily in his ears, kept his tone matter-of-fact. "Yes."

"_Why_?"

Javert did not respond for a moment. In truth, he was uncertain how to answer. He had not been thinking when he had kissed Valjean. He had simply given into the mad thought that had infected his brain, obeyed that baser impulse.

"Why? Well. Why does someone usually kiss someone else?" he said with the faintest twist of his lips. His hand which had seized hold of Valjean's collar was now clenched into a fist upon the bed. Slowly, he forced his hand to relax, folded his arms against his chest.

His reply was an evasion, and such a pitiful one that it should have been immediately thrown back in Javert's face, but Valjean only stared with those wide eyes of his, uncomprehending. If Javert had judged him by that look, he might have thought even the concept of kissing was foreign to Valjean.

Valjean turned abruptly, resumed his pacing. The sudden turns, the constant movement, the loud thumps his boots made upon the floorboard- they all made Javert's head hurt. He grew almost dizzy, enough so that his stomach roiled and he was forced to close his eyes. "Sit down," he said, but Valjean did not obey. A little irritably, ignoring his stomach twisting itself into yet another knot, he added, "I will not do it again, if that's your concern. Consider it a passing fit of madness, and not one likely to be repeated."

Valjean's quiet answer, when it came, was not what Javert expected. "You are not mad."

Javert laughed noiselessly. "Am I not? I think most would disagree on that score, Valjean. We need only examine my actions. In the past few days I have let an ex-convict go free when law and duty dictated that I should arrest him, I have drunk myself senseless for-" He hesitated, for in truth he had lost track of the days. "For however many days-"

"Three," Valjean supplied.

"For three days, and now I, well." Javert twisted his lips in another grimace. The words soured on his tongue; he wished again for wine. "I think most would find just cause to doubt my sanity."

Valjean said nothing. At least he seemed to have stopped his damn pacing, for there was no sound of restless feet upon the floorboard. "Javert," he said, and the name sounded all wrong as it fell from his lips, uncertain and weary and a third sentiment Javert couldn't name. "I don't know what you want of me."

They were not cruel words, and yet Javert still recoiled a little against the pillow as though he'd been struck. He laughed again, an odd, croaking sound. "Have I truly not made myself plain?" he muttered through his teeth. "What do I want of you? Is it truly so mystifying? Ah well, perhaps you thought my throwing the jug an expression of endearment! Perhaps you-" He was snarling and all but spitting out the words, he realized.

He took a deep breath. "I want," he said carefully, each word precise, "to be left alone."

Valjean mumbled something. Louder, he said, "Fine. But I still need to finish bandaging your wounds."

"I am surprised you would risk venturing so close to me again," Javert said acidly. He opened his eyes in time to catch Valjean's contorted expression, as though Valjean tasted something unexpectedly bitter. Javert raised his hand, flicked one bandaged wrist at him. "I told you before. I can manage."

There was a doubtful furrow in Valjean's brow at that. He seemed to be steeling himself for the unpleasant task, his expression settling into mulish lines.

"I can manage," Javert said again. The idea of Valjean bandaging his throat with grim determination was unbearable. He bared his teeth in warning. "Go away. Doubtless that woman's daughter is wondering where you are. Either that, or she admires your devotion to your future son-in-law."

Valjean's expression turned even more mulish. "The doctor said-"

"I don't care," Javert said. When Valjean only looked at him, Javert said with slow deliberation, "If you do not leave right this instant, I will go out in my damn shirtsleeves and find another wine-shop."

For a moment, something almost like amusement passed over Valjean's face, though he didn't smile. "You cannot buy wine without money."

"Without-" Javert narrowed his eyes. "Not all my money was in my greatcoat."

"I know. The rest was in your desk."

Valjean's diffident words did not make sense at first, but then comprehension dawned. Javert should have been angry, perhaps, but the utter absurdity of Valjean not only stealing his coats but apparently his money as well dragged an unwilling laugh from his lips.

He shook his head, another snort of amusement escaping him even as he bit at the corners of his mouth and tried to scowl at Valjean. "It seems old habits die hard after all. I suppose I really _should_ be grateful you haven't made off with my boots as well," he said dryly.

Valjean directed a speculative look towards the boots, as though Javert had made a suggestion rather than a sarcastic remark.

Javert narrowed his eyes. "You are not taking my damn boots, Valjean. Let me at least be able to walk to the kitchen without accosting Madame and Monsieur Bonnet with my stockings."

"No, I will leave you the boots," Valjean agreed. What little amusement had been on his face was gone. He fidgeted, plucked at his cuffs, rolled them down to conceal his wrists once more. His gaze slid away from Javert's, and color crept back into his face. "I. That is. Your neck still needs bandaging." He sounded almost miserable, as though it would pain him to touch Javert again.

Javert was tired, suddenly. Exhaustion weighed upon him, made him want to close his eyes again so that he wouldn't have to see Valjean's wretched look. Instead he cleared his throat and said, "Then let me do it myself. I will be careful. And if I make any mistakes, I'll bear the brunt of the doctor's displeasure." He found himself hoping Valjean would concede and leave. Perhaps by tomorrow Valjean would have recovered enough from the shock of the kiss to better conceal his disgust behind one of his polite, vague Madeleine smiles- for surely disgust must be the sentiment darkening Valjean's features. What else could it be?

When Valjean opened his mouth to weakly object, Javert said, "Go away. Please." He was unaccustomed to begging. The plea fell awkwardly off his tongue.

The furrow on Valjean's brow seemed to deepen. "Very well," he said at last with a quick, jerky nod. "I will- we shall see each other tomorrow…." He moved from fiddling with his cuffs to tugging awkwardly at his cap. He ran his fingers nervously over the brim even as he shuffled towards the door. He reached the door, hesitated as though he meant to say something more, and then left without a word.

Once the door had clicked shut behind Valjean, Javert leaned back against the pillow and allowed himself a moment in which he did not think at all. Then he took a deep breath, adjusted his arms so that they rested a bit more comfortably against his chest, and thought.

He circled his own thoughts warily, like a hound that was leery of being savaged by the beast it had cornered. He put the question to himself that he had been unable to answer earlier. Why _had_ he kissed Valjean? He searched his mind and found only disjointed thoughts and no easy answers. His lips drew back in a mirthless smile. It seemed that his body understood him better than his own mind, acting on decisions his mind had not yet realized it had made and desires it did not know it wanted.

After the fall of the barricades, within the carriage, he remembered, his hand had reached for Valjean's collar and faltered a dozen times, understanding before Javert himself had comprehended that the other man must remain at liberty. Today, his hand had seized Valjean's collar, and he had given into an impulse he could not yet explain.

"Well, what does it matter what I was thinking," he muttered at last with a harsh laugh. He did not think about the warmth of Valjean's lips, or their strange texture of roughness and softness. "It is hardly as though we will kiss again." No, that seemed as likely as Javert resuming his duties as an inspector.

He recalled Valjean's time as Madeleine, how he had attended low Mass every Sunday. At the time, Javert had thought it an affectation, but now he knew how Valjean strived for sainthood. And had Valjean as Madeleine not composed a few but firm rules at the factory that complemented these religious sentiments? Javert frowned, trying to remember. How had the rules gone? There had been something about good morals, of that he was certain.

He laughed noiselessly at that, clenching his fists. Valjean had called him righteous, before. He did not think Valjean would make that mistake again. But what was it that Valjean as Madeleine had demanded of the workers at the factory? Javert searched his memories, but they were fragmented like broken glass and impossible to recall with any accuracy.

He dragged himself out of bed, for he had always thought better on his feet. Perhaps moving around would help to restore his memory. He stood up too quickly; the world spun briefly around him before it steadied. He rested his hand on the back of the chair, waiting for his stomach to settle.

Javert had discovered that the law of God and the law of man did not seem to intersect when it came to the matter of Valjean. He doubted this would be an exception, for while man's law did not condemn what Javert had done, the church would have it that God did. Surely Valjean would agree with the latter. An appalling image assaulted his mind, that of Valjean returning tomorrow with a Bible in hand. He would preach on temptations of the flesh and how they must be avoided, would look at Javert with disapproving pity.

There was a sudden pain in Javert's hand. He looked down, realizing he was clutching so tightly at the chair that his knuckles had turned white. The rough wood bit at his fingers until he loosened his grip. Javert might have only the barest fragments of pride left, but he would be damned if he had to endure such a sermon. He racked his mind for a solution. Surely there was a way to avoid Valjean's compassionate censure, even if it meant he must drive Valjean away for good.

But Valjean seemed strangely intent on overseeing Javert's convalescence, as though once he had saved someone's life, he felt that he must ensure the man's future happiness as well. He had done the same for the old man during the cart incident, Javert remembered with a bitter twist of his lips. Madeleine had bought the dead horse and broken cart and had sent the old man to live out his remaining days in peace somewhere outside Montreuil-sur-Mer. Javert shuddered at the idea of Valjean attempting something similar now.

How, then, might he provoke Valjean until he forgot this perceived responsibility and quitted Javert's apartment forever? Javert recalled three recent instances where Valjean's serene countenance had cracked and temper had darkened his brow. First, when Valjean had realized Javert meant to drink himself unconscious with the porter's wine jug. Second, when Javert had spoken glibly on his near-death at the hands of the insurgents. Third, when Javert had tried to insist once more upon bandaging his own wounds despite the doctor's orders.

Well, even saints could abide only so much. It seemed many of Javert's actions strained Valjean's temper. And then there was Valjean's disgust after the kiss, his contorted expression and the way he had so eagerly fled the room. If Valjean could not stand what Javert had done and everything that implied, then Javert would throw it in Valjean's face until the other man left and did not return. Let Valjean no longer be divided between his bedside and that insurgent's whom the woman's child meant to marry, let Valjean retreat to Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7 and never come back to look at Javert with pity and poorly concealed revulsion-

His hand hurt again. He drew his hand away from the chair, frowned at the splinter in his thumb. He worked at the splinter with his teeth until he got it free of his skin. This time, he did not put his hand back upon the chair where it seemed to attract splinters. Instead, he clenched it into a fist and tapped it against his thigh in thought.

"That will work, surely," he muttered under his breath, nodding to himself. Yes, he would drive Valjean away, and then he would be left to drink himself back into oblivion and continue this combined effort of penitence and punishment.


	3. The Company You Keep

"I want to know what sustains you  
from the inside  
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone  
with yourself  
and if you truly like the company you keep  
in the empty moments."

-_The Invitation_ by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

* * *

Javert startled at the unexpected knock upon the door.

He frowned, checked his watch, which Valjean had apparently been kind enough to remove from his coat-pocket and leave on the desk before he'd absconded with the coat. Javert's frown turned somewhat bemused as he noticed the time. He had thought Valjean would drag his feet and delay his visit, not arrive earlier than he had the day before. Well, he reflected sourly, perhaps Valjean felt particularly zealous about saving his soul.

Javert folded his arms against his chest, forced himself to relax against the pillow and assume an indifferent air. His stomach refused to settle, twisting into a knot. He ignored it, and, after the prompting of a second knock, said, "Come in." He was only vaguely aware of Madame Bonnet as she bustled in with a basin and soap; he kept his gaze fixed upon Valjean.

Valjean, for his part, seemed to be looking everywhere but at Javert. He had put his burdens on the table and then retreated to stand by Javert's desk. Even as Madame Bonnet closed the door behind her, Valjean began to fiddle with one of the case files, snatching up the top paper and frowning at it.

"Valjean," Javert said after a moment of silence. He frowned, for this meeting was already not going as he had planned. He deferred his prepared speech for a moment. When Valjean ignored him and continued to read the case file, Javert discarded his indifferent air, said a little impatiently, "Leave that paperwork alone. You are going to mix up the case files."

"Does it matter if I do?" Valjean answered without looking at him. His tone was matter-of-fact as he moved on to the next page. "You've said that you do not intend to return to your duties. Will these cases ever be solved?"

Javert blinked, temporarily thrown. A few of the cases on the desk _were_ unfinished. Now that he thought on it, he had been almost ready to arrest someone in the Berger case before Lamarque's funeral had disrupted things. He only needed to convince Monsieur Gisquet to let him interview-

He scowled, spotting the trap in Valjean's words almost too late. He cleared his throat, dragged his gaze away from the case files, which suddenly seemed to sit there like silent accusations. "Well, some of the cases still need to be solved, of course, but I- I will see that they're returned to the station-house so that others can handle the cases," he said. "Though I cannot go there myself, so I would need my money-"

"I could have someone come by to pick up the files and deliver them for you tomorrow," Valjean said, tone mild but with an underlying firmness.

Javert scowled. "Fine," he said. He might have argued, but he was distracted by wondering how Valjean had managed to turn the conversation against him in the matter of a minute. He tried to regain control, reviewing the speech briefly in his head before he leaned forward.

"Valjean. I have been thinking," he announced. He paused, but Valjean still refused to look at him. Pursing his lips, irritation briefly warring with his nerves, he pressed on. "I have been mistaken."

That got the desired reaction; Valjean's gaze finally swung towards him. "Mistaken?"

"Yes, I have been going about this all wrong. I have tried to distract myself from my failures with drink and laudanum. That was pure foolishness."

Valjean did not quite smile, but his expression seemed to lighten somewhat, his eyes searching Javert's face almost hopefully. When he spoke, it was in a low, cautious voice. "I am glad you see sense."

"Oh yes," Javert said. He bared his teeth in a smile, waved a hand. "Those distractions are expensive and wear too much on the body. You were right about that. So I shall distract myself with the pleasures of the flesh instead."

The color and expression went from Valjean's face. He did not give a terrific start, as Javert had almost hoped for, but instead seemed turned to stone. Only the flush that began at his throat and crept slowly into his face revealed he was not marble.

After a pause, Valjean's mouth moved soundlessly.

"Did you say something?" Javert asked. He was almost enjoying himself at Valjean's discomfort; doubtless he would have, were it not for the small, unpleasant knot in his belly.

"You," Valjean said, so faintly that Javert was forced to lean further forward to hear the word. He stopped, lips moving silently once more. His cravat bobbed as he swallowed. "Javert, I don't- what are you saying-" He faltered once more. This time he wetted his lips with his tongue, a distracting flash of pink.

Javert briefly lost his train of thought. Valjean said nothing more, however, just gaped at him, and after a moment Javert remembered what he had been about to say.

"Ah, but perhaps you mistake my meaning," he said. He assumed a soothing tone, as one would use on an upset child, waved his hand to flick away Valjean's concerns. "Calm yourself, Valjean. When I spoke of the pleasures of the flesh, I did not mean _yours_." A harsh, unplanned laugh escaped him, scraping its way out of his throat, but Valjean barely twitched. "No, you made your disinterest quite plain. I will find someone else to provide a decent distraction. I do not think it will be so difficult. This sort of thing is not illegal, you know, and there are places in Paris where you can enjoy yourself if you have the inclination. We- that is, the police keep an eye on these places in case of possible trouble. In fact," he added with some satisfaction, "I believe there is such a place not three streets over. Wine and laudanum are costly company, but these men do not charge so much as a sou for a kiss-"

Valjean made a strange choking sound. At some point during Javert's speech he had unbent enough to raise his hands to his face so that Javert could not make out his expression. Still, his trembling hands did not hide the redness of his face or the throbbing vein in his forehead.

Javert eyed the vein with a rising sense of exasperation and perhaps a hint of concern. He wanted Valjean gone, not to suffer an apoplexy. Why was Valjean not pacing about the room as he had the day before, or, at the very least, not looking longingly towards the door? Instead he stood there like a lump, head bowed, twitching as though every word pinched at him.

Javert gritted his teeth, mentally reviewed the rest of his speech. He discarded it, for he suspected further details about the place would only keep Valjean rooted to the spot in pure horror. He pursed his lips in dissatisfaction. So much for his plan! "But enough," he found himself saying, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. "The topic distresses you. We shall not speak further on it." He waved his hand at the basins and the bandages, added a trifle waspishly, "Let us get this business over with. Then you can go home and pray for the salvation of my soul, and I can try my hand at becoming a libertine."

Valjean finally pulled his hands away from his face at that, in order to give Javert a long, incredulous look. Then he turned that same look upon the basins and the bandages, staring at them almost as though he had never seen such things before. His lips thinned, a grimace passing over his face. "I do not-"

"Unless you would prefer to go now," Javert interrupted, seizing upon Valjean's hesitation. He kept the hope from his voice, ignored the knot in his stomach that continued to twist ever tighter. "The doctor did not remark on my bandaging my own throat, so it seems I can do it myself without any damage to my wrists. You are not needed. You can leave."

He had said too much, he realized, over-played his hand, for as soon as the last word fell from his lips, Valjean's face swung back towards him, his eyes narrowing. The stunned, stupid look was gone, replaced by a disturbingly canny one.

"Ah," Valjean said, thoughtfully.

Javert shifted uneasily. He did not like that pensive tone, or the speculative gleam in Valjean's eyes, or the fact that Valjean seemed calm once more, his face now a more natural color. Javert tugged at his whiskers before he could consider the nervous gesture, and then forced his hand into his lap.

"What?" he snapped when Valjean continued to study him.

"I see what you are doing," Valjean said slowly. "You are trying to drive me away."

Javert mentally cursed. "I am trying to _enlighten_ you," he said through gritted teeth. "You persist in calling me a righteous man. I was explaining how I am not."

Valjean just looked at Javert for a moment. The speculative look had not left his eyes. In fact, it seemed to have intensified, as though Valjean believed he might be able to peer into Javert's head and read his innermost thoughts if he only looked hard enough.

At last Valjean squared his shoulders and lifted his chin almost in challenge. "Well, your efforts will not work," he said. His voice was calm, his expression obstinate. "I will not flee or consider you dissolute simply because you insist on talking about-" His self-assurance faltered then, some of the color returning to his face. He fiddled with his cravat, as though he found it suddenly too tight, tugging it all out of shape. "About-"

Javert, whose mood had turned sullen as he had watched the likelihood that Valjean might actually leave dwindle to nothing, lashed out with a low, mocking laugh. "You cannot even say it."

Valjean's expression grew mulish, embarrassment and irritation warring for domination of his features. "That is beside the point," he said stiffly.

Javert laughed again. He could not keep his hands from clenching into frustrated fists in his lap; he thrust them under his arms, folding his arms against his chest. So Valjean was going to play the martyr after all, endure obvious discomfort to see that Javert's wounds were properly tended. He found himself almost furious at the thought. "Oh yes," he sneered, "you are perfectly fine knowing that I may leave here as soon as you are finished and go to that place and seek out-"

"Javert," Valjean said. His ears had gone pink again. "Will you stop being so difficult and let me speak?"

"Speak? Stammer, you mean."

Valjean ignored this muttered comment. "Even if I thought you truly intended to go to that- that place after I left, which I do not, I would remind you that you are still healing and that- that you should not aggravate-" He paused, his throat working once more. "Well. I suppose it does not matter. You would be turned away at the door, surely."

Javert frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, you are-" Valjean made a vague gesture towards Javert's face.

Javert's frown deepened and he was almost insulted before he touched his jaw and realized what Valjean meant. He had not shaved in nearly a week; doubtless he looked like some wild animal. He pursed his lips. "Ah, I take your meaning. But that is an easy thing to fix. I need only shave."

Valjean looked skeptical. "They would accept you in your shirtsleeves?"

"Well, I will- I will borrow a coat from Monsieur Bonnet," Javert said, floundering a little. In truth, he'd forgotten that Valjean still had his coats.

A noise escaped Valjean that sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh.

Javert narrowed his eyes. While it was true that Monsieur Bonnet was a full head shorter than Javert and not quite as broad in the shoulders, surely he would not look _that_ ridiculous. He searched Valjean's expression, saw the amusement and almost patronizing disbelief there. He recalled Valjean's earlier words. So Valjean thought he was bluffing.

Well, Javert would prove to him that he was not. He unfolded his arms, threw back the covers. He rose to his feet, careful not to stand too quickly. Doubtless Valjean would seize upon any sign of weakness to force him back into bed.

"Javert, what are you doing?"

"I am going to ask Madame Bonnet to prepare some more water so I can shave," Javert said.

"Javert," said Valjean, almost laughing again, though now Javert was pleased to hear a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "You are not going to that place."

Javert drew back his lips and smiled. "You have no say in the matter." He wished the room was not so small; he would have to squeeze past Valjean to get to the door. His smile became bared teeth. "I will be back in a moment."

Perhaps he should not have been surprised that Valjean might try to stop him, but he still startled when Valjean caught him by the arm, that warm hand clamping tightly around his elbow.

"Javert, you are not- you cannot be serious."

With some effort, Javert raised his eyes from Valjean's hand to the other man's face. "If nothing else, Valjean, I am not yet a liar," he said, his throat strangely tight.

"I did not mean-" Valjean stopped, took in a deep breath. The amusement and disbelief was gone, replaced by consternation. The vein was not yet throbbing again in his forehead, but Javert suspected it would return, given time. "Javert," he said weakly. "You truly intend to…?" His hand flexed upon Javert's arm as he trailed off; Javert could feel the press of his fingernails through his sleeve, tiny pinpricks of discomfort.

It was difficult to think, much less speak. The knot in Javert's belly seemed turned to stone, a hard weight pinning him down as surely as Valjean's grip did. He forced words past dry lips, striving for an exasperated tone. "Well, what's to stop me?" When Valjean only stared at him, Javert tried to shake off his hand. "Let go of me, Valjean."

Valjean ignored his efforts, just frowned and searched Javert's expression. What Valjean was looking for, Javert wasn't quite certain, but the penetrating look made him acutely aware that he was in his shirtsleeves, trousers, and stockings, that he had not shaved or combed his hair in days.

"Let go," he said again, the command slightly hoarse. He grimaced. He loathed the way that Valjean's touch muddled his thoughts, made his body turn traitor. He tried to shake Valjean off again, and growled under his breath when Valjean merely tightened his grip. He wished, with a terrible viciousness, that Valjean _would_ suffer an apoplexy. At least then he might release Javert.

Javert's mouth opened of its own volition, spat out, "Why should I not go there, if I wish to? Why shouldn't I seek out someone's company? Why shouldn't I invite him to one of the private rooms they have in those places? Why shouldn't I kiss him? Why shouldn't I-"

Valjean's other hand clamped over Javert's mouth.

For a moment, Javert could not conceive it, that Valjean had actually covered his mouth with his hand to silence him. His thoughts scattered, fury replaced by bafflement, his mind blissfully blank for a few seconds before comprehension dawned. He lowered his incredulous gaze past Valjean's hand to study Valjean's flustered expression.

Strangely, Valjean looked hunted, as though their roles were reversed and it was Javert who had hold of him. There were splotches of color on his face, and his ears had regained their pink shade. "Will you stop talking?" he said, voice low and almost pleading.

Javert let his raised eyebrows speak for him, and Valjean grimaced, seeming to realize the absurdity of his request.

"Will you stop talking about this, at least?" Valjean amended.

Javert tried to gather his scattered thoughts. It was difficult to do with Valjean's hand still pressed against his mouth, his fingers still curled around Javert's elbow. Valjean's skin was distractingly warm. After a moment, Javert nodded in agreement.

Valjean released him, and then retreated backwards so hastily that he bumped against the desk. One of the case files slid off the surface and fell to the floor with a quiet thump, but Valjean didn't so much as glance at it. He watched Javert with a wary look instead, as though he thought Javert liable to explode. "I'm sorry, I just- you kept talking, and I-"

"Panicked like a scandalized aunt?" Javert suggested, not quite scornfully. He found himself rubbing at his mouth where he could still feel the press of Valjean's hand. He lowered his hand with a scowl, though he was not certain who he was more irritated with, himself or Valjean. "May I pass to speak with Madame Bonnet, or are you going to grab me again?"

"No," Valjean said, though his tone was not convincing. His gaze darted between Javert and the door. His brow furrowed, his mouth pursed. He looked almost ill. "Are you really going…?"

Javert did not take pity on him, precisely. Still, the idea of going to that place in Monsieur Bonnet's too-small coat where he was certain to attract strange looks rather than actual interest was not appealing, even if doing so apparently ensured Valjean would go mad. And perhaps Valjean might actually let him get to the door if he relented. He scratched at his chin and smirked faintly. "Not tonight, at least," he said. "But I do need to shave."

Valjean hid his relief poorly. A faint, mollified smile touched his lips and wavered there uncertainly. He rubbed at the back of his neck, hesitated as though he wished to say something. Instead he took another step back, this one careful, so that Javert had an unimpeded path to the door and no more case files were knocked to the floor.

Javert glanced towards his boots, for he disliked the idea of invading the kitchen in his stockings and scandalizing Madame Bonnet, but if he wasted a minute or two to put on his boots, there was the risk of Valjean changing his mind and insisting that Javert return to bed.

Madame Bonnet looked up from where she was washing dishes, blinking in surprise as he entered the kitchen. A look of concern stamped itself upon her features and she smiled anxiously. "Inspector Javert! It is good to see you on your feet again, monsieur. But is something the matter?" She hesitated. A shadow passed over her face, and he wondered if she was remembering his bout with unconsciousness. "Should you be up? You are still recovering…."

Javert did not quite purse his lips, though it seemed both his portress and Valjean wanted to fuss too much about his injuries. Could they really not see the wounds were minor? It was only neglect of the wounds and a combination of too much drinking and too little food that had weakened him to the point of collapse. He cleared his throat, remarked a trifle dryly, "I think I can manage walking to and from the kitchen, madame. I came to see if you have some more water to spare. I intend to shave," he said.

"Shave?" Much to his surprise, the woman looked relieved by this, as though his desire to shave was indicative of his improving health. He supposed she could not have failed to observe over the years his propensity towards cleanliness and neatness. "I can heat a kettle for you, if you'll just give me a few minutes."

Javert raised an eyebrow. "I am perfectly fine with cold water," he said. He would not have turned warm water away if there had been some left over, but actually heating water simply for shaving had always seemed like a foolish indulgence. Especially when he could easily shave and look presentable with cold water and soap; most days, he did not even need a mirror. He frowned momentarily, scratched at the beard that had formed over the past six days. Well, he would need a mirror today.

"Very well," Madame Bonnet said, though she frowned. "I'll fetch some more water and bring it up to you. Did you need anything else?"

"No- wait. Did the washerwoman bring back my laundry while I was…." _Drinking my way though Paris_, he was about to finish, but found he could not. "While I was away?" he concluded.

"Yes, monsieur." Madame Bonnet looked a little embarrassed. She rubbed her hands upon her apron, quick, agitated movements. "When you did not return after the trouble, I took the liberty of folding your laundry myself and putting it away. Your towels are in the armoire. I know you are a private man, monsieur, and I assure you I only-"

Javert waved off her apology. Perhaps in the past he might have been angry at her entering his room while he was gone, but that was before Valjean had made off with both his coats and his pocket-book. "Do not worry about it, madame. The towels are in the armoire, you said?"

When Javert returned to his room, he found that Valjean had picked up the case file he had knocked to the floor and was seemingly engrossed in it. "You shouldn't be looking at that," he remarked.

Valjean startled and looked guilty. "I was just going to put the file back together, and then I started reading- this gang is believed to have robbed _fifty_ houses in the span of a year?"

Javert's mouth twisted. "Ah, the Montmartre gang. Yes, they have been causing quite some trouble. Thankfully, so far they have not turned violent, for they always hit houses when the owners are out, but I suspect it is only a matter of time before-" He caught himself and scowled. He muttered, "Never mind. I only hope Monsieur le Prefect doesn't give the case to Baudin for he'll botch it, surely."

Irritated by the reminder of cases he would not solve, Javert stalked over to the armoire, yanking out the towels and unearthing his shaving kit. He had a small mirror somewhere. His scowl deepened as he tried to remember where he had put it. Then he turned back towards Valjean and realized he had another, more immediate problem. "Wonderful," he muttered under his breath.

"Is something wrong?" Valjean asked, his brow creasing slightly in concern.

"I seem to have run out of surfaces," Javert said dryly, gesturing at his case files on his desk, the basins on his bedside table, and everything else covering the surfaces. Annoyingly, Valjean looked a little amused by this. Javert studied the clutter for a moment and then resolved the issue by moving the other basins temporarily to the floor.

By the time he had located his mirror, which was buried under one of the case files, Madame Bonnet had come and gone, leaving the latest basin of water and soap. Javert settled into the rote motions of his shaving routine, stropping the razor with quick, brisk movements. It would have been relaxing, resuming his routine, had it not been for the weight of Valjean's gaze upon him, ever-present and irritating.

He had just made the first pass of his razor across his cheek when Valjean spoke. "You will miss it, surely."

Javert's hand paused, poised to make a second stroke. He raised an eyebrow at Valjean, who frowned earnestly at him; then he resumed shaving in pointed silence, not exactly hopeful that Valjean would take the hint.

Indeed, Valjean seemed determined to attempt a conversation that would surely go no better than the previous one. He continued, "That Montmartre gang- you seemed quite certain that this Baudin will be unable to catch them. Surely you will regret not arresting this gang yourself. Especially if they harm someone, as you said you suspect they will-"

Javert, who had been listening with growing exasperation, set down his razor. "I did not realize you now could read my innermost thoughts and feelings. That is quite a feat!" he said, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm. He did not purse his lips, though he wanted to, his face feeling strange with the foam coating his skin. "And if you think to take advantage and prattle at me while I am busy shaving, I will remind you that I can simply delay shaving for a minute or two."

Valjean only looked even more fervent. He all but spread his hands imploringly; indeed, they twitched at his sides as though he wished to do precisely that. "I do not mean to imply I know what you are thinking, but from what I observed in Montreuil-sur-Mur-" He faltered briefly at Javert's dark laughter, a brief flush coloring his face, but continued stubbornly, "But from what I observed, you devoted yourself to keeping the peace and protecting the people of Montreuil-sur-Mur. Would you not feel as though you were shirking your duty in protecting the people of Paris should you resign?"

Javert scowled. "We are not having this argument again, Valjean," he said. Had one time not been enough? He remembered Valjean's ridiculous suggestion to punish himself by continuing to work as an inspector, aware of his unworthiness. "And besides, I have already resigned."

Valjean ignored the warning note in his voice. "From what Madame Bonnet tells me, Monsieur Chabouillet did not understand your letter to be a resignation. And we will continue this conversation until you finally see sense."

"Until _I_ see sense?" Javert scoffed. He did not let himself look at the case files, did not let himself look in Valjean's direction, though his stomach roiled. He fiddled with the razor instead, turning the handle over in his hand and watching how the blade caught the sunlight. He remarked in a low, aggravated mutter, "If anyone is being ridiculous here, it is you. You seem to think it is sensible for me to continue working for the police, knowing I have compromised my honor and neglected my duty in allowing you to go free."

"Javert-" Valjean began, and had the audacity to sound exasperated.

Javert glowered. "No, Valjean. I have told you, I deserve punish-"

"_Enough_," Valjean said. He had not raised his voice, but there was a fierceness in his voice that made Javert shudder before he could repress his reaction. Javert looked up to find Valjean advancing upon him, his expression set. "Enough of this talk of punishment."

"_You_ have no right to sound angry, Valjean. You are the one who insists having on this ridiculous conversation," Javert said. He did not retreat, though he wanted to as Valjean drew closer, not quite invading Javert's space but skirting the edges of it. "But by all means, let us continue talking in circles."

Valjean exhaled; it was a loud, aggravated sound. He carried his frustration in his hunched shoulders, his tight jaw. He took in a slow breath. Slowly, as though with effort, his shoulders relaxed. His expression remained annoyingly determined however; Javert braced himself for whatever misguided inanity Valjean was about to utter.

"You say we are talking in circles. Let us try another track, then," Valjean said. His tone changed, turned patronizingly slow, as though Valjean felt the wine and laudanum had truly addled Javert's wits and Valjean must speak as to a simpleton to be understood. "Let us look at your future and how this punishment will play out. You resign from the police. You now have no occupation. You have enough money saved to pay for another month or two's rent, and then what? Madame Bonnet must evict you, unless you take up some other job that doesn't suit you." Valjean's expression twisted. "Or no, perhaps you will let yourself be evicted, go and live on the streets."

Javert laughed darkly even as his stomach sank a little at the damnable truth of Valjean's words. He tried to think of a suitable response and found none, for he had not considered his future since that night upon the parapet; it had seemed like such an insignificant thing, a minor concern compared to the convictions that he could not arrest Valjean, that he had been ignoring a law higher than man's law all his life, that he no longer deserved his position as inspector.

Now Javert tried to picture his future and came up with nothing. Before, he had imagined working until his death or until they forced him to retire, and then living on his savings and what small pension the government could afford to provide. Now that option was gone, and the future stretched out before him as a blank slate. Perhaps he could take another job, but when he tried to think of possibilities, his mind offered him no alternatives. He shifted, an uneasy movement; his body betrayed him again, his gaze drawn towards the case files like a month to a flame. His stomach wouldn't settle, his chest too tight.

"I will-" he began, and stopped, for he could not think of how to answer.

Valjean followed his line of sight, and his expression shifted a little, his shoulders relaxing minutely as though he had taken this as an admission on Javert's part.

Javert licked his lips, grimaced as he accidentally tasted foam. He tried to come up with a proper response or at least a remark that might distract Valjean for a moment until he could come up with something to prove Valjean wrong and wipe the faint satisfaction from his face. "Well, I have played the role of a beggar before. Why not become one in earnest?" he muttered.

For a moment the attempt to stall and divert Valjean seemed to work; Valjean looked puzzled, forehead creasing in thought. Then comprehension flickered across his face, chased the satisfaction from his features. "You would live on the streets then, accept charity?"

"_No_," Javert said. He was irritated by the thought. His lip curled as he thought of himself on the street, begging for alms. Doubtless Valjean would find him even there, to press a five-franc piece on him every now and then. He narrowed his eyes. "I was not being serious. I will simply find another occupation."

"Ah, yes, you have arms. You can work the fields." There was a hint of sarcasm in the words, along with a strange familiarity, as though Javert had heard those words before. When he stared, Valjean's frown deepened. "You said as much to me once before. I even think you believed it then. But that was a long time ago, and Paris does not have many fields for you to work. What will you do instead of police-work?"

It took another moment for Javert to remember where and when he had said such a thing to Valjean, and then he snorted. "I will find something," he said evasively. "I have two months before I am out of money. I can surely find something before then."

"Something?" Valjean said. He wore a small smile now, one that irritated Javert, for the pleased curve of his lips suggested Valjean thought he had won the argument. "You shall have to be more specific than that. Name an occupation you might try."

Since Javert could still think of nothing suitable, he frowned and countered with a rather feeble, "Why should I? It is none of your business what I do." He scowled when Valjean's smile turned openly triumphant. Javert took up the razor again, focused his attention upon the mirror as he made another pass at his jaw. This time he ignored the weight of Valjean's gaze, running the blade with slow deliberation against his skin.

"Is my question really so unreasonable?" Valjean said, almost amused. "I only ask for one occupation."

Despite his best efforts to keep his expression unmoved by Valjean's words, Javert pursed his lips in irritation. There was immediately a stinging pain on his jaw, the razor nipping at his skin. He drew the razor away from his face with a muttered curse, and watched in mild annoyance as a small, shallow cut opened up on his jaw, the red standing out starkly from amid the white foam.

"Oh," Valjean said, sounding chagrined. When Javert glanced at him, Valjean was frowning and looking far more upset than a minor cut warranted.

"Do not make that face, Valjean. I've hardly slit my throat," Javert said.

Valjean's expression clouded and Javert knew he must be thinking of Javert's previous remarks about suicide.

Javert sighed, exasperated. "I will live," he assured Valjean. When Valjean still looked troubled, he added, "It is a small cut. I doubt it will even scar." He pressed his fingertips to the cut, trying to staunch the bleeding.

He was suddenly half-blinded by white; it took him a moment to realize Valjean had thrust a handkerchief in front of his face. He stared at it in consternation, taken aback. "It will probably stain and have to be thrown away," he finally muttered, adjusting his weight so that he leaned away from the handkerchief. He tried to remember where he had left his own. His lips twisted. Doubtless it had been in his coat pocket and therefore far out of reach.

"Cosette keeps me well-supplied with handkerchiefs," Valjean said evenly, and did not withdraw. The handkerchief remained in Javert's line of sight, a challenge.

After a few seconds, Javert sighed and took it from Valjean. Their hands did not touch, and Javert was almost grateful when Valjean took a step back. The handkerchief was made of soft fabric. He did not know much of embroidery, his only talent with a needle the ability to mend the occasional tear in his clothes, but the girl had skillfully stitched an unfamiliar flower in the corner. He turned the folded handkerchief over so that the flower would be well away from the blood, just in case the handkerchief could be salvaged. Then he pressed it against the cut.

Javert caught sight of himself in the mirror as he did so, and grimaced again. One side of his face was covered in foam; the other, obscured by the handkerchief. The bandages made for an odd sort of cravat upon his neck, and his hair stuck up in all directions. He wondered, sourly, how he must appear to Valjean. In Montreuil-sur-Mur, Javert had been fastidiously neat, his shirt pressed, his coat unwrinkled, his buttons shining, a far cry from the wreck that now reflected back at him.

"Javert."

Javert realized he had been pressing the handkerchief so hard against his cheek that his fingers were almost numb. He drew the fabric away from the cut, studied the injury. When no blood welled, he nodded in satisfaction. "There, you see? I told you it was a small thing," he said briskly.

"Javert," Valjean said again. It was a tone Javert was beginning to grow too familiar with, one that forewarned another speech.

The tone played upon his already frayed temper, and Javert had to bite back a frustrated snarl. "Enough," he said. It took a great effort to keep his voice even. "I will think on your question and have an answer for you tomorrow."

A crease appeared in Valjean's forehead, but whatever he saw in Javert's expression made him dip his chin in agreement. "Very well," he said, and then clasped his hands behind his back and fell silent. In fact, Valjean remained quiet, almost suspiciously so. His reserved gaze was fixed pensively upon Javert as Javert continued to shave. Several times Valjean opened his mouth to speak, and then seemed to reconsider.

He only roused himself when Javert began to wipe the razor dry. "Your wounds still need to be cleaned and re-bandaged."

Javert paused, frowning. He stalled for a moment, examining his face carefully in the mirror to make certain he hadn't missed a spot. Satisfied he hadn't, he turned his attention to Valjean's remark. Surely after everything that had occurred, Valjean would not insist- Javert glanced over and studied the determined set to Valjean's shoulders. Ah, but of course he would. Javert pursed his lips. "I did manage to do the bandages around my throat without invoking the doctor's wrath, if you recall," he pointed out.

"That was for your throat, which seems less strenuous than bandaging your wrists," Valjean said. "Let me see to your wrists at least."

The low, almost meek way Valjean spoke the last sentence seemed like a trick somehow, though Javert could not quite see the trap. He narrowed his eyes, but Valjean's reasoning was sound. He considered arguing, but the idea wearied him. Besides, the sooner his wrists were seen to, the sooner Valjean would leave and Javert could concentrate on identifying a profession to throw in his face tomorrow.

"Very well, he said. "But I will speak to the doctor tomorrow and see when he thinks I can manage my wrists as well."

Valjean's mouth twisted briefly at that, but he did not argue, just as Javert did not let his gaze linger on Valjean's hands and their quick, efficient movements, focused his eyes instead on the bedcovers as Valjean worked.

Once Valjean was finished and Javert had bandaged his throat, Valjean made his excuses, muttering something about Cosette. His hand on the doorknob, he paused. He did not look towards Javert, so Javert could not see his face, but his tone was matter-of-fact.

"I will send someone tomorrow to fetch the case files and deliver them to your station-house, if you still wish it."

If he still wished it? Had Valjean honestly thought he would change his mind simply because he could not instantly imagine another suitable occupation? "I do," Javert said shortly.

He thought Valjean's shoulders started to slump, but perhaps it was just his imagination, for a second later Valjean's shoulders were unbowed, his voice still calm. "I shall send someone in the morning then."

"Good," Javert said, and then, rather grudgingly, "Thank you." He was not quite surprised when Valjean barely acknowledged the expression of gratitude, only moved his head a little in what might have been a nod and went out.

The room was almost unbearably silent after the click of the door. With Valjean's absence, Javert found his mind inclined to brood over the argument. He only realized he'd begun to pace when his hip collided with the chair. A dull pain blossomed from his hip and spread up his side. He grimaced, first at his own foolishness, then when he found himself gazing at the case files.

Valjean had left the Montmartre case file open, though whether that was by accident or as temptation, Javert wasn't certain. A witness statement was on top. The man lived across the street from one of the robberies; he had seen a strange woman departing the house while the family had been at a party. Javert frowned at it. There had been something off about the witness, though he had not had evidence to question the man further; propriety had kept him from voicing his suspicions to his fellow officers.

Still, he was no longer an inspector. He could say what he wished. His stomach roiled, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. Had he not done so already, with his letter to the Prefect?

He sat down, took up his pen. With careful deliberation, he began to write down his suspicions. After that, it seemed only sensible to continue jotting down further observations and suggestions. If M. Gisquet gave the case to Baudin, perhaps these notes would prevent him from botching the case.

His head bowed over the desk, he kept writing.


	4. The More Alternatives

"The more alternatives, the more difficult the choice."

- Abbe D'Allainval

* * *

Javert woke suddenly. His head pounded as though he had unearthed and drunk one of Monsieur Bonnet's wine bottles rather than stayed up half the night jotting down further observations and suggestions. After a moment, he groggily realized it was not his head pounding, but someone knocking sharply at the door.

"Javert!"

The familiar voice was like being doused with ice-cold water. The drowsiness that clouded Javert's brain evaporated, and he almost fell off his bed as he jerked upright and stared wildly at the door. What the devil was Monsieur Chabouillet doing here?

"Javert!" Chabouillet said again, his voice muffled.

Javert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Chabouillet's name stuck in his throat, strangled him into silence as he ran his hands hurriedly through his hair in an attempt to smooth it into some semblance of order. He was abruptly, absurdly grateful that at least Valjean had goaded him into shaving yesterday so that he did not look quite so pathetic.

Then the door opened and Chabouillet stepped inside to frown at him. His round face was set in almost forbidding lines; concern turned his usual cheerful countenance harsh. "Javert," he said, striding quickly over to the end of Javert's bed and blinking owlishly at him. "Well," he said after a few seconds. His lips twisted as his gaze flicked towards the bandages and lingered there. "You do not seem to be at death's door. I confess the note had me thinking the worst."

"The note?" Javert said. The words came out low and scratchy. He caught sight of Madame Bonnet hovering in the doorway. When she noticed his gaze, she offered him a half-apologetic look and then stepped back, closing the door to give them some semblance of privacy. Javert cleared his throat. "I sent no note, Monsieur Chabouillet."

"That much was obvious," said Chabouillet a trifle dryly. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Javert.

Javert accepted it. It took him a few seconds to unfold the paper for his fingers were inclined to shake and it took a great effort to keep the paper from rattling before Chabouillet's intent gaze. The note had been written in an unfamiliar hand. It said, simply, that a concerned gentleman had discovered Inspector Javert wandering the streets of Paris, apparently overcome by injuries sustained during the recent insurgency. The inspector was now recuperating and could be found at his lodgings.

It was unsigned, but Javert had no doubt who had penned the missive. The note crumpled beneath his fingers as his hand curled into a fist. When he laughed, it rang oddly in his ears. Javert thought over the way Valjean's shoulders had slumped and then firmed, as though he'd come to a decision. Really, he should have known better than to trust Valjean's silence, he thought, though his anger was a strange, faraway thing.

"Javert," he thought Chabouillet said, but another burst of laughter drowned out anything else the other man said.

Javert shook his head to clear it, but that did nothing other than to make him dizzy. After a moment, he managed to get his laughter under control. "I see how you knew I was here. But why have you come?" Javert asked, as politely as he could manage. His voice sounded as distant as his anger.

Chabouillet watched him with a frown, an unreadable expression in his narrowed eyes. "I came to see how you were faring and learn when you might be able to return to your post," he said, though the words were said slowly and almost cautiously.

That wrenched Javert somewhat loose from the distant rage; he blinked, ran his tongue over his dry lips and tried to think, though his mind moved sluggishly. "But surely you received my letter," he said after last.

Chabouillet's brow wrinkled and then cleared.

"Ah, are you worried about that letter you wrote about the prisons? Do not trouble yourself over that, Javert." Chabouillet flicked his hand, as though dismissing any further concerns. "Gisquet will be a trifle cool to you for a time, I'm afraid, for he was insulted by the letter. He took it at worst a condemnation of the prisons, at best a poor jest. But once I received the note today, I convinced him that it was just the ramblings of an ill man. The letter earned you no friends, but you have not been dismissed."

Chabouillet's attempts at reassurance took a moment to sink in, and then Javert managed a small shake of his head. "That is not- the letter was my resignation."

The harsh lines in Chabouillet's face were replaced by a look of amusement and incredulity. "_Resignation_? Ah yes, of course. I do not know how I could have missed something so obvious, despite your missive not including a single word about quitting." He tilted his head and studied Javert for a moment. His amusement left as quickly as it had come; his expression shifted to one Javert could not define, despite the years he had known the other man. A rueful smile turned up one corner of his mouth. "Javert, you are as likely to resign as I am. Even if you attempt it, you will find yourself half-mad from boredom within the month, if not the week."

If Javert had not been so dazed, he might have offered a rueful smile in return, for it was often remarked that Chabouillet was the immovable bedrock of the police. Most assumed that he would die at the age of ninety or so at his desk. Still, forcing Chabouillet to retire seemed ludicrous- not even prefects whose ire Chabouillet had invoked had ever suggested retirement.

"Monsieur," Javert began. His mouth was still dry. He wished for water, but the jug was empty and Madame Bonnet had not yet been in to re-fill it. He wetted his lips again, resisted the urge to fiddle with the bedcovers. "I do not deserve my post."

Chabouillet stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. "What are you on about, Javert? Is this because you were captured by the insurgents and held prisoner? Good God, man, there was no way to know someone in that group would recognize you! We had thought that particular barricade would be comprised of students. How could anyone have anticipated a gamin recognizing you?"

"No, that is not why I-" Javert began, and then stopped. Some of his stupor lifted. He shook his head again, and this time the gesture cleared his thoughts. Oh, Valjean had thought this through before he'd sent that note. He'd known Javert could not and would not turn him over to Chabouillet. But what other reason could Javert truthfully offer for Chabouillet so that his resignation would be accepted? Javert could not lie, but he could not tell the truth, either.

Javert passed a hand over his face, laughed again, though this one was low and mirthless. Valjean's trap was very neat indeed. "I do not know how I can convince you that I cannot continue as an inspector."

"Nonsense," said Chabouillet. He dismissed Javert's words with another wave of his hand. "Let me try and guess what has caused this self-doubt of yours. Do you consider yourself a failure for not talking the insurgents out of their stupidity? Pray do not let their deaths sour you so. You cannot reason with fools." He folded his arms against his chest, nodded seemingly to himself. "You need to rest a few more days. That is all." Another frown temporarily furrowed his brow. He hesitated. "Unless your injuries are worse than I was led to believe…."

"No, my injuries are as you see them," Javert was forced to admit. "But…."

He trailed off as Chabouillet moved over to the desk and began examining the case files. "Ah, good, you _do_ have the Montmartre case file. I'd hoped you would," Chabouillet muttered under his breath. "And you've been working on it, I see," he added, a trifle dryly. "Pascal will be grateful."

"Pascal?" Javert asked. His fury at Valjean was briefly forgotten as he leaned forward. "Has there been another robbery then?"

Chabouillet's expression soured. "Last night. The de Varley family's house in Saint Germain. They had been out celebrating the daughter's birthday at Madame de Varley's father's home."

"And?" Javert pressed, for Chabouillet looked unhappier than usual at the gang's activities.

"Around midnight, Monsieur de Varley realized he'd left the child's present at home. He sent one of his father-in-law's servants to fetch it."

"Is the man dead?"

"Alive, but barely. He will be blind in one eye, and the doctors do not know if he will be able to use the one hand again," Chabouillet said grimly.

Javert hissed through his teeth. "I told you it was only a matter of time," he said, slapping the palm of his hand against the bedspread.

"So you did," Chabouillet agreed. "But the gang seems comprised of ghosts. No one sees them enter the houses, no one sees them leave. If the gift had not been forgotten, this robbery would have been the same as the others."

"Is the servant conscious? Has he been questioned yet? If he can describe even one of the gang, we can-" Javert faltered, recalled his resignation only when Chabouillet's lips twitched briefly with amusement.

"Half-mad by the end of the week, I think," he thought Chabouillet muttered, and then the older man cleared his throat. "The gang ensured we could not, at least not immediately. His jaw is broken, so he cannot speak, and they smashed both hands, so he cannot write. It will take time to get answers from him."

"Damn," Javert said feelingly. He forced himself to settle against his pillow, ignored the sudden restlessness that welled up within him. He folded his arms against his chest. Pascal was a good sort. Still, he was uncomfortable dealing with the aristocracy, being the son of a farmer and his wife. No, Pascal would not be grateful to have this case land in his lap. "Pascal must be at his wit's end."

"If he has not torn out the last of his hair in agitation by the end of the month, I will owe Girard five francs," Chabouillet said. "I suspect he will pore over the file and your notes and then come to beg you for assistance. This despite knowing you are ill." His eyes traveled slowly over Javert once more, and what little amusement that had crept into his face when remarking about his bet with Girard vanished.

Javert wondered what bothered him the most. Was it Javert's injuries? They doubtless reminded Chabouillet of the insurrection. Was it Javert's pallor? He must look almost a ghost from lack of sun. Or was it perhaps his hair? It was badly in want of a cut, something Chabouillet would find worryingly unlike him.

His head pounded. Resentment for Valjean rekindled in his chest, though he kept his expression calm, his tone even, as he corrected Chabouillet. "Even though I am ill and have retired, you mean."

Chabouillet pursed his lips. "Do you still persist in that nonsense? Javert, you have given me no reason you are unfit for your post."

Javert was not tempted to turn Valjean over to Chabouillet, though he found himself wishing he was. He racked his brain for a decent excuse, and then straightened a little as he found one. "The concerned gentleman lied to you, in the note. He did not find me wandering the streets overcome by my injuries," he said, stumbling over the words in his urgency. "He found me drunk and nearly passed out in the street."

"Drunk," Chabouillet echoed. When Javert looked at him, Chabouillet looked blank. Surely Chabouillet's empty expression meant displeasure.

Javert pressed on. "After I left the letter for Monsieur Gisquet, I drank my way through several wine-shops before F- before the gentleman brought me back here. You see? I disgraced my position. I am unfit for duty."

Chabouillet's response, when it came, was not what Javert expected. "And do you intend to resume drinking?"

Javert stared. His heart began to sink a little, for Chabouillet's tone was sarcastic. "What?"

Chabouillet waved a hand almost impatiently. "You do not smell of alcohol. I see no wine bottles littering the floor. Moreover, you have been strange today, but I do not think you are intoxicated. Will you become a drunkard?"

"No, but-"

"Then I do not see the problem. You were overcome by recent events. Little wonder," Chabouillet continued heatedly, "when you were captured and threatened by insurgents. You saw them and national guardsmen alike die by the dozen. If you were not upset, I would think you made of stone."

"But-"

"And then Monsieur Gisquet sends you to hunt down escaping insurgents. He does not even bother to have anyone tend to your injuries first!" Chabouillet growled through his teeth as Javert stared, shocked by the blatant criticism of the Prefect.

"Monsieur, you shouldn't blame Monsieur Gisquet for what happened," Javert began slowly, almost cautiously, for this was not like Chabouillet at all.

It was not that Chabouillet always agreed with the Prefects he had worked under. But when he found himself with a difference of opinion from his superior, Chabouillet tended to confine himself the occasional dry remark that skirted the edges of criticism and which Javert had always done his best to ignore. Earlier disagreements had certainly never evoked this strange fit of temper.

Javert continued before Chabouillet could berate an absent Gisquet further. "You said it yourself: there were far too many deaths. Every man was needed in the aftermath, to track down insurgents and ensure that would be no further trouble. Monsieur Gisquet could not afford to send any man home who was still on his feet."

"Even if he could not spare you, he might have given you an hour or two to tend to your injuries and allow you to rest. An hour would not have made a difference, surely," Chabouillet said, apparently still inclined to argue.

Javert thought of his pursuit of Thénardier alias Jondrette to the sewers, of his encounter with Valjean and his half-dead insurgent. Would Javert have been at that particular exit at that particular moment, if he had been delayed at the station-house by an order to rest and have his wounds tended? He did not know.

"I shall have to disagree with you there, I think," he muttered half under his breath, and chuckled, though there was no mirth in the sound. He shook his head. "It does not signify. I would have insisted on performing my duty. You must realize that."

Chabouillet let out an exasperated breath, some of his earlier anger ebbing and shifting to ruefulness. "Yes, I suppose that is true," he said. He rubbed at his chin, grimacing a little. "Well, perhaps I am being unkind to Monsieur Gisquet. Perhaps you downplayed your injuries, and he was too distracted to press you for the truth. That does seem to be a habit of yours."

Javert pursed his lips, feeling like a child being scolded for his foolishness. His fists tightened underneath his arms; he resisted the urge to fidget. "I do not believe it is a _habit_, since that would imply I do it often." But now he recognized Chabouillet's expression and snorted. "Monsieur, should I remind you that the Dupont incident was almost sixteen years ago? Surely you will not throw that in my face."

"The incident tends to linger in one's memory, considering you nearly died," Chabouillet remarked dryly.

"We were still in pursuit of a criminal! I did not want to distract anyone. Besides, I'd misjudged how deep the knife wound was, and how badly I was bleeding," Javert protested. It was an old, familiar argument, the well-worn phrases almost soothing in their repetition. He managed a faint smile, one that was not quite amused. "Besides, the Dupont incident _did_ draw your attention to me, did it not?"

Chabouillet shook his head. "That is beside the point. Your zeal stood out, naturally, but it was your overall devotion to your duty that caught my attention. I thought, if you could keep yourself alive, you might make be a valuable asset to the force." His expression resumed its earlier brooding look. "And here we come to my problem with your resignation, Javert. Do you truly mean to tell me all my efforts have been a waste? You will quit with a strange letter to the Prefect and a pitiful excuse to me about drowning your sorrows for a few days in alcohol as reason for dismissal?"

Javert's mouth was dry again. "I-" He stopped, tried to formulate a sentence that would banish Chabouillet's reproachful look. "You have done much for me, monsieur. Without you, I would not have gained my position in Montreuil-sur-Mer or Paris. But I cannot…I cannot continue as I was. I could not be the same inspector you have known, if I remained, and I do not know what you would make of me, even if I was fit for my post."

"The gleam in your eye when we discussed the Montmartre case seemed like the Javert I know," Chabouillet remarked in a low mutter. Then, before Javert could argue, he added, "Would this new man you claim to have become disregard the tenants of supervision and vigilance?"

Javert wearied of this awkward fumble for words, of this struggle to remain honest without revealing Valjean's existence. "No, of course not, but that is not the problem," he said slowly. He knew Chabouillet would expect more, that Chabouillet deserved more, but he could not find the energy to continue with these half-truths.

Perhaps that reflected in his face, because Chabouillet sighed and rubbed at his chin again. "I don't suppose you care to elaborate on what the problem _is_," he said without much hope.

After a moment, Javert shook his head, though it felt like a betrayal somehow, that he could not tell Chabouillet the unvarnished truth. He owed the man a great deal. If Chabouillet had not taken him under his wing- well. Things would have been different, certainly, for a great many people. He wondered, suddenly, if Valjean would still be Madeleine had Chabouillet's patronage not sent Javert to Montreuil-sur-Mer.

"Javert," said Chabouillet.

He realized he'd unfolded his arms and that one of his hands now gripped his whiskers tightly, tugging at them until his head ached. He dropped his hand to his side, dragged his attention from pointless speculation. He focused instead on Chabouillet's expression, which was solemn. Javert cleared his throat. "Do you plan to take all the case files with you today? If so, you should send the Berger case to Costure. He will be able to make an arrest soon."

"I suppose I should," Chabouillet said, though he frowned as he began to gather up most of the files. "Though some of these will keep, surely," he muttered under his breath, hand hovering over what Javert suspected was the Dufour file.

Javert studied the way Chabouillet scowled at the file as though it had offended him personally somehow, and suspected he knew what Chabouillet was thinking. If he left a few case files behind, he could return the next day with a decent excuse.

"I think Monsieur Gisquet will protest at his secretary being out of the station two mornings in a row," Javert said.

Chabouillet made a sound that was not quite a laugh and did not look at him. His hand retreated from the case, his fingers drumming briefly on the edge of the desk. Only the Berger and Montmartre cases were tucked under his arm. "That's true," he said after a pause. Something that sounded like levity but wasn't touched his voice as he added, "Perhaps I will send one of your admirers tomorrow to collect the rest."

"Monsieur," Javert protested, barely repressing a groan of dismay. Several of the sergeants had been overawed by his actions during the Gorbeau affair and taken to following after him like over-eager and ill-trained puppies. He thought of Moreau and Comtois in particular, with their overly earnest questions about his injuries and if it was true that he was quitting the force, and grimaced. "That would be unfair of you."

"Unfair? No, I think that they will not believe your resignation if I tell them," Chabouillet said. "They need to hear it from you directly."

There was no rebuke lurking in the words, but Javert winced anyway, imagining Comtois and Moreau's expressions. "Chabouillet," he protested again, and this time Chabouillet shot him a sharp look.

"No, you will at least do them the kindness of telling them to their faces, Javert," he said.

"Kindness," Javert muttered, the word sour on his tongue. "Very well, send them tomorrow if you insist. I suspect they would come anyway, even if you did not send them."

Chabouillet raised an eyebrow. "They would know where to look? I did not realize they actually knew where you live."

Javert couldn't quite help his rueful chuckle at Chabouillet's half-incredulous look. "There is the book with our addresses," he pointed out. "But even without that, Baudin told Comtois during the Allard incident. You remember, when Pierre Allard held that woman hostage and would only speak to me, but I had finished my shift."

"Ah, yes," Chabouillet said, enlightened. He paused, opened his mouth as though to say something, and then reconsidered. He glanced down at the files under his arm. "Pascal will want this as soon as possible."

"Yes," Javert said, though Chabouillet did not move, only glanced up to study him again. The vise-like sensation of a headache made his head pound, but he endured both the discomfort and Chabouillet's searching look.

"I do not know if you will listen," Chabouillet said slowly, "but I will speak my piece anyway. Javert, will you at least listen? I have known you for fifteen years. I do not claim to know your innermost soul, but drawing upon my observations of you over the years, I can claim that I know you better than most. So believe me when I say that I think you are being too hard on yourself. Can you not accept that you are human, that witnessing so much pointless death would unnerve anyone?"

Chabouillet's expression darkened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "So you strove to banish your demons through drink. Well, that is far preferable to other, more permanent means. A national guardsman, a young man with a promising future I am told, killed himself just last night." He paused. "You might have met, briefly. His suicide note touched on what he witnessed at the Rue de la Chanvrerie barricade."

Javert kept himself very still, froze his expression so that it would not change and betray him. He did not permit his thoughts to stray to the parapet where he had stood and contemplated the Seine's tempting embrace. He did not think at all.

Luckily, Chabouillet seemed too intent on making his speech to notice Javert's reaction, or careful lack thereof. He gestured with his free hand, speaking urgently. "We have lost enough good men in the past week, Javert, to death and permanent injury. Will we be deprived of one more because of- because of-" He paused, pursed his lips as he presumably searched for the right phrasing.

Each word was like a weight dropped upon Javert's shoulders. He did not bow under the load, but it was a very near thing. "Enough, Chabouillet," he said through gritted teeth.

A spark of challenge lit Chabouillet's eyes. "I am not quite finished," he said. "Javert, you will regret your decision if you resign. That much I do not doubt. Even now, is there not a large part of you that wishes to throw off your covers and return with me to the station? Just say the word, and you may continue your work on the Montmartre case and help bring these wretches to justice. I know the Gorbeau affair still troubles you as well. Do you truly not desire to resume your hunt for the Patron-Minette and to see them arrested once more?"

"It does not matter what I _desire_," Javert said. The words hurt his throat, left his chest feeling empty as the breath left his lungs. "It only matters what I _deserve_."

"And I tell you that you do not deserve this punishment you have chosen," said Chabouillet, so close to Valjean's own words that it took everything within Javert not to flinch. Chabouillet searched Javert's face once more; whatever he found there turned his expression and tone bitter. "But it seems you do not trust my judgment, despite everything. Very well. I will send Comtois and Moreau tomorrow to collect the other files and your resignation letter."

Javert blinked. "My-"

"Your diatribe about the prisons does not count, Javert. We must have a resignation letter that actually says you are quitting your post. You may give it to Moreau. He'll see that it reaches my desk."

"I," Javert began again, his mouth dry. If he had thought Chabouillet's earlier words weighed heavily, that was nothing compared to these bitter remarks. "Mon-"

But Chabouillet had apparently said his piece and did not wish to remain another minute more. Without a word of farewell, Chabouillet strode towards the door and wrenched it open.

The slamming of the door echoed in Javert's ears like the gunshot that had reverberated through the alley after Valjean had released him. Javert sat there dumbly, his ears ringing.

Then the earlier wild restlessness drove him out of bed. He found himself opening the armoire and yanking out the first pair of trousers, shirt, and waistcoat his hand fell upon. He changed with sharp, jerky movements, hardly aware of what he was doing, his head still pounding too much to think clearly.

"Monsieur Javert?" Madame Bonnet called cautiously through the door. "Did you need anything?"

Javert's mouth opened on its own, informed himself and his landlady, "One of your husband's coats, madame. I am going out."

"_Out_, monsieur?"

"Out," he said, even as he ran an automatic hand down the front of his shirt to smooth away any wrinkles.

He took up the small mirror, surveyed himself. That strange, faraway feeling of anger had returned; every gesture he made felt unnatural. His face seemed like a stranger's. After a moment's consideration, he smoothed his hair away from his face, running his fingers through his hair until it lay mostly flat. The strands were in need of a wash, but even the thought of staying here a half-hour longer made his stomach twist.

When he emerged from his room, Madame Bonnet hovered by his door, one of her husband's coats clutched in her hands. She offered it to him uncertainly. "Inspector, do you intend to be gone for long? The doctor will be…." she began, but trailed off as he took the coat from her.

As he'd suspected, the coat was ill-fitting. The cuffs did not even come close to reaching his wrists, and the coat was far too tight upon his shoulders. He buttoned up the coat, and then twisted his body carefully, testing how much he could move without feeling strangled. He would have to walk and gesture with care if he did not want to tear the stitching and owe Monsieur Bonnet a new coat. He lowered his arms cautiously. "Thank you," he said. "I do not know how long I will be."

"And if the doctor arrives while you are gone?"

"Convey my apologies and tell him I will see him tomorrow," Javert said. He retreated briefly back into his room to snatch his old hat from its position atop the armoire. Its brim had frayed, but he supposed it was better than no hat at all.

"What about breakfast?" Madame Bonnet asked, following at his heels. "You should-"

"I am not hungry," he said, firmly enough that the woman's mouth snapped shut. He ignored her anxious look, tipped his hat to her. "Good morning, madame."

It was early enough in the day for the weather still to be cool, the summer breeze tickling the back of his neck as he walked. The sensation drew Javert slowly from that distant anger, the wind kindling a spark of fury in his chest until he could barely see in his rage.

He did not mutter to himself, for he was already attracting strange looks, but the words nearly strangled him. How _dare_ Valjean send that note to Chabouillet! How _dare_ Valjean interfere in his life as though he had any say in the matter!

Javert walked and brooded, growing angrier with each step. His mental map of Paris had remade itself, each street and shortcut distinct once more; his feet led him unerringly towards Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7.

When he knocked at the gate, a man who was presumably the porter came out to squint at him. Javert did not miss the judgmental twist to the man's mouth as his narrowed eyes moved slowly over Javert's too-small coat and fraying hat, how his gaze lingered on the bandages poorly hidden at his throat and wrists. The porter pursed his lips.

"I am here to see Monsieur Fauchelevent," Javert said before the man could mistake him for a beggar and send him on his way. Despite the rage that made his hands want to shake, the words came out matter-of-fact.

Something like comprehension flickered across the man's face, but he shook his head. "He's not here, monsieur. I'm afraid he's on an errand."

"Not-" Consternation choked him. Belatedly, he recalled Valjean saying something about visiting the insurgent's bedside every morning. He studied the porter's unfriendly expression and knew the man would not invite him inside. "When-"

"He might return in the next few minutes, or he might return in two hours time, monsieur. There's no way of knowing," said the porter, still with that unwelcoming politeness. "If you'd like to leave a message, I can give it to him once he's returned."

"No," Javert said. "No, I will wait."

The porter stared at him. "Wait?"

Javert gestured at a nearby stone post which would make for an uncomfortable but workable seat. "I will wait," he repeated.

The porter pursed his lips and looked doubtful. "If you insist, monsieur, but you might be waiting a while."

A low, mirthless chuckle escaped Javert then, one that hurt his throat. "I have nowhere else to be."

"Very well, monsieur." With one final, dubious glance, the porter retreated back into the house.

Javert wiped at the surface of the post, for it was wet with dew, and then settled his weight against it. He folded his arms against his chest and bowed his head in thought to brood once more.

"Monsieur?" The voice was soft, musical, and decidedly female.

Javert slowly raised his head.

A young woman smiled brightly at him. Unlike the porter's, her look contained no judgment, but merely a good-natured sort of curiosity as she studied him. "Forgive my forwardness, monsieur, but you _are_ waiting to speak with Monsieur Fauchelevent, are you not?" she asked. She favored him with another dazzling smile when he nodded. "Good! I am his daughter."

"Daught-" Javert stared at her, dumbfounded. _This_ was that woman's child? He found himself searching her features, looking for any resemblance between mother and daughter. He discerned only similar and yet dissimilar rosy cheeks, for the daughter's face was flushed with health and the heat as the mother's had been with illness and the chill. Otherwise they were as different as night and day.

Then again, perhaps this was how that woman would have appeared, had she not been dying when he knew her. His throat tightened at the thought, his stomach roiling uneasily. '_You have murdered that woman_,' Madeleine's voice seemed to whisper in his ear, and Javert repressed a shudder. He dropped his gaze to the ground, looked away from that smiling countenance. It took him a few seconds to speak, and when he did, the words were strained. "I do not wish to impose, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. I can wait out-"

"Nonsense, monsieur!" This was said cheerfully but firmly. "I have already asked Toussaint to prepare some tea for us. We must not waste her efforts. And I must admit that I am terribly curious about you. We so rarely have visitors."

When Javert forced himself to look up, the girl's expression was still cheerful, but there was a certain stubborn slant to her mouth and her hands were upon her hips. She would not allow him to stand outside and wait for Valjean, he realized. If he tried to dig in his heels, doubtless she would stand here for the next few hours, cheerfully enduring the summer heat alongside him.

He cleared his throat, made one final, awkward attempt to persuade her into returning to her apartment and leaving him here with his thoughts. "Pardon me, mademoiselle, but you do not know me. We have not even been formally introduced. I do not think it's proper for-"

Amused laughter interrupted him this time, as though she thought he was joking rather than in earnest. "Toussaint will be there, monsieur. She can act as duenna until Father returns. Will that suit you? And we shall know each other much better once you've told me your name," she said, and looked expectant.

"I am Inspec-" Javert stopped. The title caught in his throat. He had known, objectively, that he would no longer be able to call himself an inspector, but it was one thing to know it and quite another thing to introduce himself without the title for the first time. His mouth went dry. With some effort, he took off his hat and inclined his head towards her. "I am Monsieur Javert," he said finally, and tried to ignore the way 'monsieur' seemed so strange on his tongue.

The girl had noticed the slip, for she fixed her curious gaze upon him and said nothing for a moment. Then she smiled again, this time almost cautiously. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Javert." She clasped her hands in front of her, her expression brightening. "But come, the tea should be ready by now. We shall get away from the heat, and have tea, and you can tell me how you know my father."

Javert imagined telling her the whole story, beginning with Toulon, and repressed a sarcastic laugh. "That is his story to tell, not mine, mademoiselle," he said. "You will have to ask him, if you are truly curious."

She wrinkled her nose at that. "Oh, but he will not tell me anything!" she muttered. "If you know him well, Monsieur Javert, you know how he will only get vague when you ask him anything about his past."

Javert did not answer, but she did not seem to notice. She explained how her father had gone to visit a home in the Marais, to deliver linen to a family friend who had been injured during the recent unpleasantness. Some of the color faded from her cheeks then, and worry clouded her blue eyes.

"He is very badly hurt," she concluded.

Javert shifted, disquieted and uncertain what to do about the distress in her voice. He was not one for comforting gestures or soothing words- in fact, for quite some time he had been forbidden to deliver death notifications to victims' families. He cleared his throat again. "I believe V- I believe your father said that the boy was feverish, but that there was hope he might survive."

She looked somewhat comforted, and then surprised. "Father spoke to you of Marius?"

Javert was certain his expression reflected his own puzzlement. "He seemed to think I should take an interest in the boy- in Marius's fate- since I helped your father deliver him to his grandfather's house."

"Helped-" Rather than allaying her confusion, Javert seemed to have added to it, for the girl stared at him as though he had suddenly spoken Greek. "Monsieur, I do not understand. You are saying that my _father_ brought Marius to Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire No. 6?"

For a moment, they stared at each other. Javert could not make sense of it. It sounded as though Valjean had concealed his actions at the barricade from the child, but that was nonsense, surely. Valjean had saved the boy she loved, what need was there for secrecy?

"Yes, mademoiselle," he said slowly. "How did your father explain…?"

He did not finish the question, for the girl turned and rushed away. She threw open a door and darted inside, crying out, "Toussaint! Toussaint, you must hear what the gentleman has to say about Father and Marius!" An instant later, her head and shoulder reappeared around the door and she gestured wildly at him. "Come in, monsieur! You must tell us everything!"

Javert hesitated, but when she gestured again, he entered the room. It was an antechamber; there was a table with a tea set, an arm-chair that must be Valjean's, and then two chairs that looked as though they had been hastily arranged in the antechamber for unexpected company. There was a bookshelf that spanned an entire wall, cluttered with books that seemed to run from philosophical texts to adventure novels.

The elderly servant looked curiously at Javert, but she too showed no judgment at his appearance. "Good morning, monsieur," she said. She reached for his hat, which he belatedly realized he still clutched in his hand. The woman spoke with a strong stammer, though Javert did not think it was nerves that caused the stuttering. "The tea is ready, mademoiselle."

"Sit, monsieur," commanded the girl. She took his arm, raised her face to smile at him. He froze, for he'd found yet another trace of her mother; it was in her imploring look and the entreating tone she used as she said, "You _will_ tell us how you and Father saved Marius, will you not, monsieur? It seems quite the tale!"

Javert had not been moved by the mother's pleas, but he found he could not refuse the daughter. Still, he could not let her go on looking at him like that, as though she admired him. He stepped away, tugged his arm from her grasp. "I did not- you misunderstood me, mademoiselle. It was your father who rescued him and carried him away from the barricade. I merely provided the carriage."

"Ah, so you only aided Marius, you did not rescue him," she said with a bright laugh. "I see that is a very different matter, and yet I thank you for your assistance nonetheless. Now please, will you sit and tell us of how you came to provide the carriage?" She gestured at the arm-chair. "Please, sit, monsieur," she said again.

He stared at the arm-chair. His stomach roiled uneasily once more. He should not have come here, he realized. He should have remained in his own apartment. Instead, he'd placed himself in the lion's den, to sit in Valjean's chair and to be so addressed by Valjean's daughter.

"Mademoiselle," he began.

"Monsieur," she answered with a teasing laugh. "You look ready to flee. Am I so terrible a hostess? But I suppose I am, for I am pestering you with demands before I have even given you tea!" She made to do so, her motions quick but careful as she poured three cups. She pressed the first upon Javert, who accepted it automatically, and then the second upon Toussaint, positioned in one corner of the room. Finally she took up the last cup and seated herself with an artless grace in her chair.

Javert sat down in the arm-chair, feeling vaguely like he'd just stepped fully into a cage and locked himself inside. He raised his cup to his lips to hide his unease. The tea tasted of lemon and skirted the edge of being overly sweetened by one too many spoonfuls of sugar.

She waited until he had lowered the cup to lean forward, her blue eyes fixed upon his face. She didn't say anything, but her expectant look might as well have been another spoken plea.

Javert fiddled with the cup, turning it around in his hand and studying the painted roses. "Perhaps it would be best if you first told me what your father said. It might be a simple misunderstanding of his explanation," he said.

She wrinkled her nose, looking doubtful. "I do not think that I misunderstood him, monsieur. He explained how he had received a letter from a Monsieur Gillenormand- that is Marius's grandfather- informing him that Marius had been badly injured at one of the barricades and that one of the servants had been going through his clothes and found a letter in Marius's pocket explaining…." She paused, an embarrassed flush turning her cheeks still rosier. Then she squared her shoulders and looked almost defiant. "A letter explaining how Marius loves me. We plan to marry, you see."

"Ah," Javert said. Were congratulations in order, since the boy might not survive the week? He fiddled with his cup, wondering how to politely inform her that Valjean was a liar.

"So what _is_ the truth, monsieur?"

"The truth," Javert repeated. The word curdled on his tongue, made him grimace. "The truth is that your father was at the barricade, mademoiselle. He rescued your Marius himself and dragged him through the sewers to escape the National Guard."

"You witnessed this? Were you with Marius at the barricades?"

"_With_-" Javert scowled at the insinuation, and then attempted to soften his expression when she shrank back. "I was not one of the insurgents, mademoiselle. I am- I was-" The words tangled together, the bandages around his throat too tight. He ran his fingers briefly under the bandages, loosening them a little so that he could breathe. "That is to say," he continued, "at the time I had been captured carrying out my duties as an inspector of the police. I was a prisoner of the insurgents when Monsieur- when Monsieur Fauchelevent came to the barricades to rescue your Marius. Later, when I was on patrol for further insurgent activity, I found your father and the boy emerging from the sewers near the Jena bridge-"

"Forgive me, monsieur, I am grateful that you are telling me this, truly I am, but I think you are only giving me half the story," the girl said. Her feet drummed a nervous beat on the floor. "You were a prisoner? However did you escape? Why did you assist Father if you were meant to arrest Marius?"

"I-" Javert stopped, not so much frustrated at the girl's questions as he was at himself. Had his skills at issuing a verbal report really atrophied so quickly? He had given one to the Prefect less than a week ago! He cleared his throat.

"Let me try again, mademoiselle. Monsieur Gisquet, that is, the Prefect of Police, had assigned me two tasks during the recent troubles. First, I was to go to the barricade being raised at the Rue de la Chanvrerie and study the insurgents' numbers and learn their plans if I could. Second, I was to patrol the right bank of the Seine and ensure that the insurgents were not creating further disturbances there." He paused and shrugged. "Unfortunately, I was recognized at the barricade and captured. Your father-" Had the bandages somehow tightened on their own? It was proving difficult to speak. He swallowed. "When your father arrived at the barricade to rescue your Marius, he realized my predicament. The insurgents planned to kill me right before the barricade fell."

He tugged again at the bandages. He remembered the way the martingale had dug into his skin, how Valjean had marched him out into the alleyway, the glint of the pistol, and then the glint of the knife. Quietly, he said, "Your father convinced the leader that he should be allowed to execute me, and then allowed me to escape."

If she had been surprised to learn that her father had rescued the boy, she was not, it seemed, surprised at hearing how her father had saved Javert from certain death when the opportunity had presented itself. She leaned forward, propping her chin in one hand, her expression eager and attentive. "And then?"

"And then I reported to Monsieur Gisquet what I'd observed. After that, I made my way to the bank of the Seine. There I recognized a criminal who'd recently escaped from prison, and I pursued him, but he disappeared into the sewers. While I was waiting to see if he would emerge, your father appeared instead, carrying the boy. He-"

Javert had been turning the cup around in his hands, studying the tea's ripples rather the girl's face as he'd continued speaking. Now his hands stilled, the words sticking in his throat. He finished the rest of his tea, but found that his mouth and throat were still dry. "He asked me a favor, that I would help him carry your Marius home. I…had a hackney-coach waiting."

"And so you agreed to the favor, when you should have arrested Marius," said the girl when he paused.

Javert winced at her admiring tone. "It was not as generous an act as you think, mademoiselle. I had not thought the boy would survive his injuries. And-" He was fiddling with the cup again. He discovered a small chip at the bottom of the handle. He ran his thumb over it, frowning. "And your father spared my life when he should have-" He paused, and then laughed noiselessly. "Well. When he-"

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reached his ears, and the rest of the sentences struggling for utterance fell promptly out of Javert's head. He set the cup on the table. He turned his face towards the door, and ignored the way his heart pounded like he was about to face a firing squad.

The girl turned towards the door as well, wearing a half-pleased, half-determined look. "I think my father is home, monsieur," she said. "I hope you don't mind if I demand some answers of him before you discuss whatever it is that you came to discuss."

Javert would have laughed again if his throat had not been so dry. "Not at all, mademoiselle," he forced out.

Then the door opened, though Valjean's voice filled the room before his body came into view, his words sharp with urgency and concern. "Cosette, Monsieur Royer says we have a guest-" Valjean froze in the doorway as his gaze fell upon Javert. His expression emptied itself of all emotion save astonishment.

For a few seconds, the room was silent. Then the girl leaped to her feet and marched towards Valjean. "Father! I am very vexed with you," she announced, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed in a scolding frown. "Why did you lie? Inspector Javert has been telling us-"

Valjean's expression had drained of expression before; now it drained of color. "Javert has been telling you…?" His gaze flickered between the girl and Javert for a bewildered instant, and then the girl took a startled step backwards as Valjean's expression darkened with rage.

Javert, caught in the middle of rising to his feet, gripped the armrests and sank back down into the chair as Valjean advanced upon him. He had seen Valjean frustrated before, and even somewhat angry. He had not, he realized, seen Valjean truly furious and all that rage directed upon him until now.

"What have you said?" Valjean growled in a dangerous tone.

The girl looked bewildered by Valjean's transformation. She reached out to clutch at his elbow. "Father, do not be angry with him," she said, her eyes wide and her tone pleading. "I asked him how you two knew each other-"

Pain and something like grief contorted Valjean's face then, and in a flash of enlightenment, Javert understood. The girl did not know of Valjean's past, and Valjean thought Javert had-

"I told her about the barricade," Javert interjected. "How you saved me and that boy Marius."

"The barricade," Valjean said slowly, blinking.

"Yes, the barricade," the girl said. She laughed, though there was an edge to the sound. "What else would we have been discussing? I do not understand why you did not tell me that you saved Marius's life, why you made up some silly tale about a letter! Were you worried I would scold you for putting yourself in danger?"

A curious expression formed on Valjean's face as the girl spoke. The anger ebbed away, replaced by bewilderment. He seemed almost stupefied, like a man who has been given a reprieve seconds before his execution.

When he did not answer her, the girl looked anxious. She squeezed Valjean's arm and said, her gaze fixed upon Valjean's dazed expression, "Sit down. You are so pale! Was the ridiculous secret that important to you? I cannot imagine why! Come, take my chair. Toussaint, do we have another cup? Never mind, Father can use mine, for he needs some tea-"

"No," Valjean said, her nervous chatter seeming to shake him from his stupor. He even managed a faint smile as he patted her hand, though it was a weak, unsteady twist of his lips. "No, I am all right, my dear. I do not need any tea." He paused, an unreadable expression on his face. Softer, he added, "I promise I will explain about the barricade, but right now, Inspector Javert and I must talk."

"Very well," she said with a put-upon sigh, though she kept her hand on his arm, as though to reassure herself he was steady on his feet.

After a few seconds, Valjean added, "Alone."

There was a strange undercurrent to Valjean's tone; it took Javert a moment to recognize it as fondness. Even as he watched, Valjean patted the girl's hand again, an unfamiliar warmth in his expression.

"But," she began to protest, wrinkling her nose once more. Then she sighed and stepped back, her hands resettling on her hips. She pursed her lips at Valjean. "Very well, have your privacy. But you _will_ tell me the whole truth of the barricade and how you came to rescue Marius." She smiled suddenly, a mischievous look. "If you do not, I suspect I can get it out of Monsieur Javert. He seems much more forthright."

Before either Valjean or Javert could react to this declaration, the girl turned and said in an imperious tone, "Come, Toussaint. I think we should go for a stroll while the weather is not so unbearably warm."

"Yes, mademoiselle," said the servant, her expression and tone reserved even as her gaze flickered towards Valjean. A minute later, both she and the girl were dressed for a morning walk.

Javert kept his silence, and Valjean, for his part, had retreated to stand beside the bookshelf, his arms folded against his chest and a pensive look on his face.

The girl paused at the door, and then abruptly turned and flung her arms around Valjean's neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Even as Javert dropped his gaze to the floor in embarrassment, he could not help but hear her affectionate words as they filled the air. "Promise me you will drink some tea, Father, or I shall worry the entire time Toussaint and I are having our walk. And do not frown so! You are forgiven, even though you lied to me."

This last sentence was offered in a magnanimous tone, and Javert was unsurprised when Valjean chuckled weakly. "I will have some tea," Valjean promised. "Enjoy your walk, my dear."

The tenderness in Valjean's voice pricked at Javert like salt being rubbed into his wounds; he grimaced and scowled down at the floor, wishing once more that he had remained in his own apartment and waited for Valjean to arrive that afternoon to confront him. It had been bad enough to know the man had transformed from a criminal into a saint; it was somehow equally terrible to find he had changed into a devoted father to that woman's child as well.

The door closed, and thick, suffocating silence fell upon the room. Javert took in a deep breath, then another, still staring at the floor and trying to gather his thoughts.

Then Valjean cleared his throat. "Why did you come here, Javert?"

Javert bristled though there had been no rebuke in the question. "Do not play the fool," he snapped. "It doesn't suit you. You know perfectly well why I came."

"No," Valjean said, his tone irritatingly mild. "I know why you are angry, but we could have just as easily had this conversation at your apartment rather than here. Did you walk the entire way, or did you borrow some money from Madame Bonnet for a coach?"

"What is your insistence on pointless questions?" The anger, banished for a time at the shock of seeing that woman's child grown into a young woman, was returning. Javert looked up, scowling.

Valjean wore a look which matched his mild tone, a patient expression that made Javert even angrier. Valjean had no right to look so composed, as though Javert was the one being foolish and overreacting. "I am trying to understand-" Valjean began. Then some of the calm slipped, a slight furrow creasing his forehead. He paused. The corners of his mouth turned downward. "I am trying to understand why you are here, and to learn what you told Cosette."

Javert laughed noiselessly. "Ah, yes. Your Cosette- but I suppose I should call her Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. That _is_ the name she goes by, is it not? I think you scared Mademoiselle Fauchelevent with your furious look. It was almost," he continued, sarcasm thickening the syllables until he was almost choking on his own words, "as though you objected to the fact that I came to your apartment uninvited and spoke to someone you respect without your permission about things that are not my concern. Do you not believe that turn-about is fair play, then?"

A flush crept into Valjean's face. His frown deepened. "This is quite-"

"Different?" Javert laughed again, though this time the harsh, bitter sound escaped his lips. "I think not. Have I not simply returned the favor you bestowed upon me? Ah, but perhaps you object because we are still not even. It is only right that I should interfere with your life as much as you have with mine." He reached out a hand, snapped his fingers when Valjean stared in mute incomprehension. "Very well, I will concede to your wishes. Give up your pocket-book and your coat, and we shall call ourselves even."

"Javert," Valjean said. He half-laughed, half-made a face as though he could not believe Javert's words. "What-"

"Or you can return my money and my coats, if you prefer," Javert continued. He hauled himself upright, ran his gaze down Valjean's frame in a slow, mocking look that made Valjean flush. "That would probably be best. I think your coats would fit me little better than Monsieur Bonnet's." Besides the door that led into the hallway, there were three others in the antechamber. Earlier, the girl had gone into one room to don her walking clothes, the servant into another. Javert started towards the third room, which presumably belonged to Valjean. "I assume you did not actually send the coats to be cleaned as you told my landlady-"

"I did," Valjean said, and Javert stopped in dismay, his hand resting on the doorknob. He did not look at Valjean as the other man continued, "A washwoman took your summer coat yesterday. I expect it back tomorrow." When Javert turned and stared, Valjean looked unapologetic. "You spent some time sitting in the dirt, if you recall. The coat was in need of a cleaning."

"Is my winter coat here at least?"

"Yes," Valjean said after a moment's hesitation, as though he'd been tempted to lie.

Javert shrugged. "Well, that is better than nothing, I suppose."

"It is June. You cannot walk through Paris in your winter coat unless you want to die from the heat," Valjean objected, and then winced, presumably at his own phrasing.

"If I have my money, I can take a carriage," Javert said. He went into Valjean's room as Valjean made a noise suspiciously like an exasperated sigh. Much like Madeleine's office in Montreuil-sur-Mur, the room was Spartan. Javert's coat was laid upon Valjean's bed.

"Javert," Valjean said from the doorway.

Javert ignored him, and tried to take off his borrowed coat. His movements were too hurried and too frustrated; he managed to get himself tangled up in the sleeves and swore as he thrashed around like a ninny.

"Here," Valjean said, and Javert jumped. He had not heard Valjean's approach, but now Valjean was suddenly in his space, too close again. His breath tickled Javert's ear, raised the hair on the back of his neck as Valjean added, "Let me help."

"I can do this myself," Javert grumbled, that old, traitorous knot reforming in his stomach. He made to step away, and then twitched as Valjean took hold of his elbows. "_Valjean_-"

"Yes, yes, you do not need my help. But I think you would prefer my assistance to fumbling with the coat for another five minutes," Valjean said dryly. His grip was light upon Javert's arms, but firm; Javert did not doubt he would tighten his grasp if Javert tried to escape his reach.

Javert gritted his teeth, endured the touch. "Fine," he said. He waited, but Valjean made no move to actually untangle him from his borrowed coat.

Instead Valjean just stood there, his even breaths still grazing Javert's ear and making Javert fight back another shudder. Was the man lost in thought? Had he not heard Javert's acquiescence? Perhaps he was just stalling for the sake of driving Javert mad.

Javert did not quite dare to turn and glare directly at Valjean, not with Valjean already so close. He fixed his glower upon the far wall and snapped, "Well? Get on with it."

Valjean's hands tightened briefly. "It will be easier if you relax, I think," he murmured. Then, even as Javert drew in a deep breath and attempted to obey, Valjean ruined all his efforts by asking, "So Monsieur Chabouillet must have received my note. Did he come to see you?"

Javert rolled his eyes. Of course Valjean would be unable to resist the urge to pry. Javert did not know why he was surprised. "Can you not wait and ask me about Chabouillet until _after_ I am free from this coat?" he complained. He'd tensed again at the mention of Chabouillet; he forced himself to relax.

"You are actually going to answer my question?" Valjean said, sounding a little surprised.

"No, but at least then I would be out of the coat," Javert said.

Valjean made a noise suspiciously like a chuckle, his breath hot against Javert's jaw as he shifted in place. His hands finally moved, his fingers working their way between the coat and Javert's shirt. "He must have either spoken to you directly or sent a letter of his own, or else you would not have come here to scold me," Valjean said, though his low tone was distracted, as though he were merely thinking aloud. "Surely he also objected to you quitting, though perhaps he was more persuasive when arguing against it."

Javert pursed his lips. Had _that_ been Valjean's plan, send the missive and hope that Chabouillet would convince him not to resign? "It is none of your business what we spoke on," he said, memory of Chabouillet's bitter expression turning his voice almost to a growl. "Especially when you had no right to send that letter to Chabouillet." He snorted. "A concerned gentleman! What foolishness. Though I suppose I should be glad that you did not sign the letter Fauchelevent and lead a trail straight to your door."

Valjean said nothing for a few seconds. Then he said, "There is already a trail to Ultime Fauchelevent, of a sort. The uniform you saw me wearing at the barricade was mine. Fauchelevent is part of the National Guard."

"What!" Javert made the mistake of turning his head to stare and gauge Valjean's sincerity. He found Valjean smiling, a small, upward curl of his mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkling with sheepish amusement. It was a strange look on Valjean, for it lent a certain softness to his face. Javert resisted the urge to swallow, instead said a little thickly, "You are not serious."

"I am serious," Valjean said. His eyebrows rose briefly. "Where did you think I'd gotten the uniform? Surely you didn't believe I'd stolen it off a corpse."

"Honestly, how you came to wear that uniform was the farthest thing from my mind," Javert said dryly.

Valjean's smile faded a little. "Yes, I suppose it would have been," he said. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, the faint smile becoming almost fixed upon his face as he tugged Javert's coat sleeves back to almost his shoulders. "Straighten out your arms," he said.

Javert obeyed, gritting his teeth and forcing the tension out of his arms and shoulders. The tension moved to his stomach and his legs, muscles taut as though he would snatch up his coat, find his money, and flee as soon as he was free of Monsieur Bonnet's damn coat.

Valjean was too close again, the heat of his hands soaking through Javert's shirt to the skin. Standing like this, with his arms trapped behind him, Javert felt too much like a prisoner and Valjean too much like the man clapping irons on him. He closed his eyes against Valjean's intent expression and his pursed mouth, reddened by Valjean worrying at his lips.

"If you are done prattling," he found himself muttering, though Valjean had not spoken since his last instruction, "may we finish?"

As though to spite him, one of Valjean's hands dropped from Javert's arm.

"Valjean, will you just-" The rest of his exasperated demand caught in Javert's throat as Valjean's fingers pressed lightly against the back of his neck, just above the bandages. Javert repressed a full-bodied shudder of surprise and clenched his fists instead.

"Have you been tugging at your bandages? They seem a trifle loose." Valjean observed. "And they do not look clean." There was a frown in his voice. "Did the doctor not visit?"

"No," Javert said. "Madame Bonnet will tell him to return tomorrow if he visits while I am away." The admission was given grudgingly, for Javert did not doubt Valjean would scold him. He should have simply refused Valjean's assistance, he thought sourly; surely he would have untangled himself by now.

"Javert-"

"_No_," Javert said again, sharply. He bristled at Valjean's dismayed tone. He shook his head as a horse would shake off a fly, rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to work himself free of the coat, but neither Valjean's hand nor the coat moved. "You will not scold me like a fishwife while I am still trapped in this damn coat. Or do you think it is fair to scold me while I cannot escape?"

"It is not fair, but what does that matter? It is not as though you listen," Valjean pointed out.

Javert opened his eyes and turned his head a little so that he looked down into Valjean's face. Valjean's eyes were dark with frustration, his lips pressed tightly together in a frown. The momentary softness had vanished.

When their eyes met, Valjean's hand tensed against Javert's neck; his fingernails dug into the skin not quite hard enough to be painful. "Javert," Valjean said. He stopped, some emotion flickering across his face that Javert could not define. "I am only concern-"

Javert spoke over him, a trifle loudly. If he had to hear yet another word of Valjean's concern for his well-being, he would tear out the stitching of Monsieur Bonnet's coat and be done with it. "How many times do I have to tell you my life is not your concern before you accept it? We are not friends-" The words choked him. He said, quieter, "You are not obligated to ensure that I spend my remaining years contented, Valjean. In fact, I would be _content_ if you stopped with your meddling and left me in peace."

Valjean's hand tensed against Javert's neck as Valjean frowned, though this time fingernails did not dig into skin. "But you would not be in peace, you would be unhappy, even if you will not admit it," Valjean said earnestly. Much as Chabouillet had, his eyes focused upon Javert's face as though he searched for something in Javert's expression. "I cannot stand by while you choose misery due to some misguided notion of-"

"Enough!" The word came out a low growl. "You cannot force my former position upon me-"

"And how is your decision to quit the police not partly my fault?" Valjean broke in. "You have said yourself that you could not return to your position because you allowed me to remain at liberty and betrayed your position. Do I not share some responsibility?" Valjean's tone was almost pleading.

If Javert's arms had not still been caught behind his back, he would have slapped Valjean's hand away from his neck and fled, his winter coat be damned. "That was not the only reason I cannot continue as an inspector," he said, grimacing. Then he laughed his strange soundless laugh. "Though I suppose the other reason has as much to do with you as the first."

"And what is the other reason?"

His speech came haltingly at first, unease twisting his stomach tighter with every syllable, and then faster, Javert almost astonished at how the words tumbled from his lips in their urgency to be spoken.

"Before you- before the barricade, I was certain. And perhaps you do not understand that, you with your half-dozen names and identities, but I knew what was right and what was wrong, I knew all the answers could be found in the law if only I looked hard enough. But then you destroyed all that, you with your mercy. How can I be a decent inspector if I am constantly doubting myself, if I hesitate over what is just in each situation, man's law or God's? I would be useless and indecisive. The police surely do not need a man like that."

Valjean fixed a troubled look upon him. "Have you not considered that is precisely the type of man the police might need?" he asked slowly.

Another laugh scraped Javert's throat. "I do not see how that is possible. Why would they need an inspector who hesitates and doubts himself?"

Valjean said nothing for a moment, his lips pressed tightly together once more, though he seemed more pensive than frustrated. "Better one who hesitates than one who accepts the law blindly and makes terrible mistakes," he said.

There was no obvious rebuke in Valjean's words and yet Javert flinched nonetheless. In his mind's eye, he saw the specter of that child's mother, her desperate face lifted towards his as she pleaded that her child would die if she went to jail. He saw Madeleine as well, his expression pained as he was stripped of his chains of office and re-fitted with manacles.

Still other faces appeared, those of men and women he had arrested who had offered Javert all manner of excuses and pleas over the decades. How many of them had been speaking honestly as the woman had or been striving towards piousness as Madeleine had? How many times had he mistaken man's law for justice when God's law would have told him otherwise?

Javert shook his head, banished the accusing faces until at last he focused upon Valjean's face. "I would dither like a fool," he said with a bitter twist of his lips, settling on a truth he could stomach to say aloud. "And those types of indecision can allow the criminal the opportunity to escape. What if I hesitate and mistake someone for another- for another Jean Valjean, when the wretch is as monstrous as one of the Patron-Minette or Montmartre gang?"

"I think you do yourself a grave disservice," Valjean argued. He paused, a curious flush on his cheeks, his eyes flickering away and then returning to meet Javert's gaze. "True, you misjudged my ability to change, saw only the convict and not the good man I was attempting to be. That is the truth, it cannot be avoided. But you also recognized that I was keeping a secret in Montreuil-sur-Mur when no one else questioned me, or- well, or at least was not convinced when everyone else was. You do not have perfect judgment, but it is not as terrible as you think it to be."

"I-"

Valjean ignored him, kept speaking in a low, unbearably earnest way. "And try to think of it in this manner, Javert. What if what you fear never comes to pass? What if this new way of considering the law means you might be able to help people who would have suffered otherwise? You can always resign later, if what you fear is true."

"If what I fear _comes_ true, you mean," Javert said. "And then I would have blood on my hands, if that escaped criminal murders or harms someone." His hands clenched into fists, so tightly that his hands ached. Valjean's gaze lingered upon his fists as Javert said, "No, I cannot take that chance."

Valjean shook his head. His gaze returned to Javert's face. "But what of the cases you might solve if you remain an inspector? You cannot tell me your fellow inspectors will be able to solve _all_ of the cases I saw on your desk without your assistance. Are the deaths of the future victims of those unsolved cases not blood upon your hands as well?"

Javert took the question like a blow; he could not quite help the way he rocked back on his feet, even though it meant Valjean could feel the recoil. He thought of the Montmartre case, of the servant who had nearly died. The next time the gang might kill rather than maim. Would that person's death be on his conscience as well?

"I-" There was a buzzing in his ears. "So I am damned either way," he said distantly. "You make it very clear- whether I remain as an inspector or quit my position, there still will be people hurt because of my decision-"

"No, that is not what I meant," Valjean snapped, his voice suddenly very close.

Javert blinked.

Valjean had closed what little distance there had remained to them, his face only a few inches from Javert's. His expression was strained. "That is not what I meant at all, Javert. I meant that you could do good work, help as well as protect people, if only you would allow yourself the opportunity," Valjean said.

Something twisted in Javert's chest. The buzzing died away, replaced by an unpleasant, too-familiar pressure in his head. A sound that was neither a laugh nor a sigh escaped him. If his hands had been free, he would have passed them over his face, pressed his knuckles to his forehead and tried to rub away the impending headache.

Instead he shook his head, Valjean's palm still resting lightly against his neck. "You make it sound so simple," he said. The words came slowly now, and quietly, for Javert found it took some effort to gather enough breath to speak. "It cannot possibly be so. Good God, when I remember- was it less than a fortnight ago?- how straightforward everything seemed! I knew my place. My choices were superseded by one decision I had made long ago, and that was to follow the law without question. How could the future surprise me? I had only to look to the law to tell me what to do next and I would know what to expect. There was none of this fumbling around, groping for answers, deciding for myself what to do and then having to wait to see what comes next. It is…."

He paused. Weariness pressed upon him, and he felt for a moment like an Atlas with the weight of his past mistakes rather than the world upon his shoulders. He did not quite dare to close his eyes again for fear he would give into the mad impulse to lean into Valjean's grip. "It is exhausting," he concluded, frowning at the inadequacy of the words.

Ruefulness and sympathy briefly warred for control of Valjean's features before his expression settled into a soft combination of both emotions. When he spoke, it was in a murmur almost as quiet as Javert's speech. "That is _life_, Javert. It is wearying at times. I will not argue that it is not often overwhelming, but it offers a potential for-" Valjean hesitated, flushing again. "For happiness." There was a twist of his lips that suggested that he too found his choice of words wanting and imprecise.

The dissatisfied curve of Valjean's mouth was almost comforting, in a strange way. At least he was not arguing that Javert's path was a simple one or that if Javert decided to embrace this idea of mercy and God's law, he would instinctively understand and know his new place in the world.

He felt almost on steady ground, watching Valjean fumble for words. "Life and happiness," he said. He tested the words out, curled his tongue around their shape, and felt his own mouth curve in something that was not quite amusement. "So you will take away my certainty, my alcohol, my money, and of course my coats, and in exchange offer me life and happiness, is that it? I do not know what to make of that bargain. And I am not as certain of my future happiness as you seem to be."

"Most would argue it is a good bargain," Valjean said, "and some would also argue that everyone deserves happiness." He paused. There was something almost tentative in the way he looked at Javert, as though he had not thought Javert would listen at all and now worried that the first wrong word would make Javert lose his temper. It was not an unfounded fear, Javert admitted in the privacy of his own mind. "As to the last, well, from what I have observed, you were pleased when you performed your duty admirably. I believe if you work towards upholding God's law, towards advocating mercy, you will find you are a better inspector than before. Would that not be cause for happiness?"

"I see," Javert said. The pressure in his head was easing. It was growing almost easy to think, to counter Valjean's words with reason rather than ravings on doubt and duty. His mind turned towards something Valjean had said. He raised an eyebrow. "I find that curious."

Valjean looked puzzled. "Curious?"

"That you trust I will be a better inspector, when you do not trust-" 'That girl' caught in his throat. 'Mademoiselle Fauchelevent' seemed equally awkward. "That you trust I will be a better inspector, when you do not trust your own daughter."

If he had been puzzled before, Valjean was astonished now. His mouth fell open, his eyes widening to saucers. Then he frowned. There was a hint of temper in the way he almost growled, "I trust Cosette."

"Not with the truth of what you did at the barricade, apparently."

Though Javert was still pinioned by his borrowed coat, it was Valjean who looked trapped. His expression was the look of a man who wished to do anything but respond to Javert's remark. Valjean wetted his lips with his tongue, a sudden flash of pink.

Once more, Javert recalled how close they were to each other. Valjean's hands seemed to grow warmer against his neck and wrist at the realization, as though the blood running through Valjean's veins had turned to flame. Javert swallowed and resisted the urge to take a step away from Valjean; _he_ would not be the one to retreat when it was Valjean who was ready to bolt. He gave a surreptitious roll of his shoulders, but he could still not free himself of the coat. He pursed his lips, watched the way Valjean's gaze avoided his.

When Valjean said nothing, apparently hoping Javert would change the subject if he remained silent, Javert snorted. He leveled his words at Valjean, uncertain if they were meant as an attack or merely a distraction from the warmth of Valjean's skin. "Perhaps I am missing something, but I cannot conceive why you might want to keep your actions a secret. Surely she would not be _displeased_ by your rescue of her intended fiancé! Why make up some silly story about the grandfather and a letter? Surely-"

"We are not going to discuss Cosette," Valjean said quietly. His tone was dangerously even. Tautness hardened Valjean's jaw and tensed the hand resting upon Javert's neck.

Javert found that he had no particular interest in another argument, especially not while he was still tangled up in Monsieur Bonnet's damned coat. Still, he permitted himself an elaborate eye-roll at Valjean's evasion. "Very well, what do you deem an acceptable discussion?" When Valjean only frowned, he added, an exasperated bite creeping into his voice, "Or perhaps rather than prattle at each other we might actually remember why I came into your bedchamber in the first place and actually get this coat off me."

Valjean gave a little jump, and then blinked at Javert as though he had honestly forgotten that Javert was still ensnared by the coat. The corners of his mouth creased, some of the tension in his face replaced by apologetic amusement. "One moment."

Javert had not thought it necessary for Valjean to draw even closer to free him from the coat, but Valjean took another step nearer, close enough that when he bowed his head, a few stray curls of his white hair caressed Javert's throat. It was a little difficult to breathe, made more so by a scent which seemed to linger in Valjean's hair. The other man had not seemed the sort who wore perfume, but still the scent tickled at Javert's nose, curious but pleasant.

Traitorous heat pooled low in his belly; he shuddered before he could repress the reaction. He forced himself to stillness. Thankfully, Valjean didn't seem to have noticed, but Javert found he could no longer bear the silence. "I should have done this myself," he grumbled. "I would have done it faster and without-" His voice hoarsened, and he gritted his teeth.

"There," was all Valjean said, tone mild. He stepped back.

With a start, Javert realized he was free, that Valjean's nearness had driven him to such distraction that he had not noticed. He rolled his shoulders, grimaced as a joint popped loudly. He took Monsieur Bonnet's coat from Valjean's extended hand, folded the coat over one arm, and then turned towards the bed.

"Surely you are not putting on your coat right this instant," Valjean said, though Javert already had one arm through a sleeve and it was obvious that he was doing precisely that. Valjean sounded almost dismayed.

Javert paused. "Why would I not?"

Valjean frowned. One hand rose to rub at his jaw. "It is your winter coat. Surely you will get too warm."

"Only if I wear it overlong in the heat," Javert said. "I plan to take it off as soon as I return to my apartment-"

"You're leaving? But we are not done."

Javert, halfway into his winter coat, stared until Valjean flushed. Had Valjean thought they were going to sit down to more tea and conversation? The idea was unbearable. "Yes, we are. I have my coat, and you will tell me where you've hidden my money, and then I am going-"

"We are not done," Valjean said firmly. "You have not told me if you plan to return to your position as inspector."

"Good God, you are like a terrier with a rat," Javert muttered. Pressure began to mount once more in his head at the thought of yet another debate about his future and what he deserved. He grimaced, rubbed at his throbbing temple. "I will think upon it. That is all I can promise." He caught a certain, tentative hope creeping into Valjean's expression, and snapped, "I said _think_ upon it, not that I will resume my duties, Valjean."

"Yes, I understand," Valjean said, but still looked damnably pleased. "Do think on it, but remember that you have been a right-"

Javert groaned in dismay. "Enough! If you say one more thing about my being a _righteous_ man when we both know very well I am not, I will- I will-" For a moment, he could not think of a proper threat. Then he remembered the fury in Valjean's face when he had seen Javert sitting there with the girl. "I will tell your daughter all about the barricade."

Valjean had started to pale at the mention of the girl, but now, absurdly, he looked almost amused. "That is no threat," he said with a certain lopsided quality to his smile. "You have already told her what I did not want her to know, that I rescued Marius. The details themselves do not matter." Before Javert could try to think of a proper threat, something shifted in Valjean's expression. "And I will call you a good man if I so choose, because you-"

Javert resisted the urge to grind his teeth in frustration. He hissed out an exasperated breath, raised a hand to halt Valjean's speech. "Stop. _Stop_ your foolish praises, Valjean. We both know you are exaggerating my integrity and conveniently ignoring my flaws." He remembered Valjean's dismay when Javert had described his proclivities. His lips twisted, a sudden bitter taste filling his mouth. "Why else would you, a saint, think and speak so highly of the likes of me, when you already know not only of my failure but also of my depravity?"

"Deprav-" The word seemed to catch in Valjean's throat, and he flushed. "I thought we agreed not to speak of that," he muttered.

"I do not recall making such a promise. I agreed to stop speaking of it then, but not for all time," Javert said. A thought occurred to him, and he laughed, noiselessly, and shook his head. "Oh, I am a ninny! Chabouillet asked me why I did not deserve my post, and I could not give him a proper answer, not without mentioning you. It did not occur to me to speak on my depravity! I wonder what Chabouillet might have said, if I had told him how I wished to-"

Pain bloomed in his face, sharp and sudden. He rocked back on his heels, one hand clapped over his throbbing nose as tears sprung to his eyes. He was stupefied by the pain, could not make sense of it. Had Valjean actually struck him? But that did not seem likely, for when Javert blinked the tears away and lowered his hand he found that Valjean was touching his own face, fingers gingerly running over the ridge of his nose.

Valjean's hand could not hide the rising color in his face. Even as Javert blinked at him, a chagrined smile curved Valjean's lips. "You made that seem somewhat easier," he said, almost reproachfully.

Javert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His mind chased itself in fruitless circles. He closed his mouth and stared at Valjean, well aware he probably looked like a brainless dolt. "What," was all he finally managed, and even that word seemed to stick in his throat. He licked his lips, tried again. "Valjean-"

The gentleness in Valjean's hands as they cupped Javert's face was something close to an answer to the question Javert had not managed to ask, though it was an answer Javert's mind balked at comprehending.

Javert had a moment to think, rather stupidly, that perhaps he had misunderstood Valjean yet again, and then Valjean kissed him and even that realization fled.

It was a closed-mouth kiss, soft and almost tentative, as though it was Valjean's turn to ask a question and Javert's turn to answer.

For a moment Javert could not think, much less react. Even the light pressure of Valjean's lips against his was overwhelming, the warmth in Valjean's hands banishing all sensible thought. Javert felt as though he'd been turned to stone, standing there mute and stupid. Then something welled in his chest and caught in his throat, strangling him until he had to release it or choke.

When he parted his lips, a short, incredulous laugh escaped, the sound half-muffled against Valjean's mouth.

Valjean drew back a little, his fingers fluttering against Javert's jaw as though Valjean thought to release him. Javert resisted the ridiculous urge to grab Valjean's wrists and hold him in place. It was only Valjean's expression, searching rather than angry, that stopped him from putting impulse to action. Valjean's face was flushed almost purple, and even as Javert stared at him, he worried his lower lip with his teeth once more and fidgeted.

"And what is so amusing?" Valjean finally asked, with a slight downward twist to his mouth.

Javert did not let the curve of Valjean's mouth distract him. "Oh, me, of course," he said. Another laugh escaped him at Valjean's puzzlement, this one strange and unfamiliar to the ear because it held honest amusement. His lips drew back into a self-deprecating smile before he attempted to explain. "It seems even now you continue to confound me. I did not think you wanted- I thought you wished me to be silent about my desires because you deplored-" He stopped, the rest of the sentence going unsaid, for at some point during Javert's stammering, Valjean's eyes had lowered to watch his mouth.

Javert thought he now recognized the look he had assumed was disapproval; the look had an entirely different cast to it at present. He wondered if he had missed the heat in Valjean's gaze the other times Valjean had stared at him so, or if it was only now that Valjean let his desire reach his eyes. Want heated Javert's belly, made him too warm. He could feel sweat beading on his brow, realized that he was still only halfway-wearing his coat. He let the coat drop to the floorboards, ignored the dull thud the winter coat made. "Valjean," he said. The name scratched at his throat, came out low and hoarse. "I do not- if this the only way you think to induce me to- to embrace happiness and rejoin the police-"

He stopped, frustrated at his lack of eloquence, hating the way unease now clawed at his belly and attempted to dispel the want. The idea of Valjean offering this out of pity was intolerable even to contemplate.

But now it was Valjean's turn to chuckle, though it was wry. "You called me a saint, before. I might try to do good, but I am not so much a saint that I would-" He hesitated, and Javert suspected it was only the fact that his face could not turn redder that Valjean did not blush more. His hands slipped away from Javert's face before Javert could react.

Valjean looked away, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and concluded awkwardly, "I would not offer you this if I...did not want it as well."

Javert swallowed and wished he hadn't, for the sound was as loud as a pistol report in his ears. Surely Valjean had heard- but no, Valjean was still studying the far wall, apparently unwilling to look at Javert and see the effect of his words. Javert ran his tongue over his lips, hesitated for a long moment. Valjean had lied in the past about a great many things, but he had not lied to Javert the night of the barricade, and Javert did not think he would lie now about this. He wondered, but did not quite dare to ask, his throat too tight for further speech, _when_ Valjean had begun to want this.

Instead he reached out, pressed two fingers tentatively to a spot just under the point of Valjean's chin.

Valjean turned startled eyes towards him. His lips parted, and his throat pressed against Javert's fingers as he swallowed. "Javert," he said, and then the confusion in his face shifted to something almost like anticipation when Javert leaned forward and kissed him.

Javert had meant to kiss him lightly, to answer Valjean's tentative kiss with a careful one of his own.

But then Valjean made a sound when their lips met, a small, desperate noise in his throat that went through Javert like a lightning bolt and ignited the heat in his belly, stirred his prick between his legs. It was all he could do not to seize Valjean by the collar and drag him closer, press their bodies flush against each other and feel if Valjean truly wanted this as much as he did.

He kissed Valjean as though he could not bear to stop, kept kissing him until his lips felt swollen, until his lungs burned for air and he had to break off to gasp for breath like- His mind shied away for a second, but even as Javert drew back and took in a deep inhale, his mind completed the thought almost mockingly: like a drowning man needing air. Another laugh escaped him, quiet and caustic, and he dropped his hand from Valjean's chin.

He breathed deeply, until the desire that had seized hold of him had eased to something more manageable. He'd closed his eyes at some point during the kiss. Now he opened them. He found Valjean's eyes were still shut, though even as Javert watched, the other man's eyelashes fluttered.

Valjean's face was still flushed, his lips red and swollen, almost bruised-looking. There was a stunned softness to his face, which did not make him look young, they were both too old to look _young_, but nevertheless seemed to banish some of the more prominent lines in Valjean's face. The creases that remained left the impression of being carved there by smiles rather than frowns. Perhaps they had been formed by Madeleine's patient smiles or, more likely, genuine ones evoked by his daughter.

Javert was resisting the urge to do something foolish like touch the creases at the corner of Valjean's mouth when the other man finally opened his eyes. There was a half-startled warmth in his eyes that made Javert want to kiss him again, though he restrained himself.

For a moment, Valjean said nothing, his expression shifting to an opaque look. Javert did not dare to break the silence which seemed to thicken the air between them, only gazed back and wished that he better understood Valjean's expression. He wished, a little bitterly, that he better understood _Valjean_, who seemed just as unfathomable as before they had kissed.

"Your cravat's come undone," Valjean said, hoarsely.

Javert blinked. He must have misheard, he thought, even as he glanced down and realized that Valjean was right. But surely Valjean did not mean to focus on such an inconsequential thing when there was the matter of what had just transpired, what it meant-

But Valjean picked up the ends of the cravat and began to tie it with quick, nervous movements. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, his expression settling into a look of concentration that the tying of a cravat didn't warrant. After a moment the cravat was tied; still Valjean kept fiddling with it.

Some of the earlier heat was replaced by sheer exasperation. "Valjean," Javert said after another few seconds. As Valjean ran a finger under the cravat to make certain it was not too tight, his touch a mockery of a caress, an involuntary growl escaped Javert's throat. "Leave the damn thing alone."

When Valjean ignored him, he took hold of Valjean's wrists. It was only as Valjean's wrists flexed, as Valjean shuddered, that Javert realized his error. Before he could loosen his hold and fumble his way through an apology, however, Valjean attempted a smile, a lopsided thing. His wrists relaxed in Javert's grasp.

Javert tugged Valjean's hands down to his sides and immediately released him, unsurprised when Valjean shifted his weight, leaning away.

Javert cleared his throat; Valjean's shoulders tensed. "Valjean," he began, wondering at the way the name turned strange on his tongue. He cleared his throat again, said stupidly, "Well."

Valjean's face, which had been gradually returning to a normal shade, began to flush again. "I have lost track of the time," he said before Javert could actually manage a sensible sentence. Valjean looked towards the door to the antechamber, rubbed at the back of his neck. "Cosette said she would be back in an hour's time, did she not?"

"Yes, I seem to remember she did," Javert said slowly. He studied Valjean once more, searching for some hint of how to proceed, but Valjean was not looking at him, and there was still that damnable opaque look of his shielding his thoughts.

Javert resisted the urge to snarl in exasperated frustration, to rub a hand over his face and pace before Valjean like a half-mad fool, to demand of Valjean what he wished of him. Still, did Valjean truly intend to kiss him, announce that he desired Javert, and then change the subject to his _daughter_ as though nothing had occurred between them?

He rubbed at his still-tingling lips, stared once more at Valjean's reserved expression in a futile effort to make sense of it. Another caustic laugh choked him, though he did not let it escape his throat. Perhaps he had pressed Valjean too quickly, asked too much of him. To admit desire was one thing; to have Javert throw himself at him like a starving man quite another.

"Valjean," he began, clearing his throat a third time, but Valjean spoke over him.

"I assured Cosette that I would have some tea before she returned." The words were said almost hurriedly, as though he expected his daughter to return at any moment when surely no more than a half-hour had passed since she and her servant had departed. "I should keep that promise-" Here Valjean paused, blinking rapidly, and finally glanced towards Javert. Something akin to sheepishness passed over his features, and he rubbed at his jaw. "Ah, did you want some tea?"

Javert did not immediately answer. Instead he imagined saying yes. They would sit down to tea, and Javert would watch Valjean's hands curl around a cup and Valjean's throat work as he sipped at his drink.

Ardor pooled in his belly at the thought, but it was tempered by the thought that Javert would only be able to watch and not touch, that Valjean would doubtless remind him of the girl's impending presence should he succumb to temptation. He drew back his lips in something not quite a smile. Even the shape of that half-grimace twisted further at the thought of enduring Valjean's attempts at pleasantries. Even worse would still being present when the girl returned; Javert would be forced to watch the tender way Valjean and the child interacted, to see shadows of her mother in her gestures and expression as she scolded Valjean for keeping Marius's rescue a secret.

He shook his head and banished the thought before he could brood too long upon it, for Valjean was waiting for a response. "I have had tea. Your daughter already played the hostess," he said. He plucked up his coat from the floor and put it on, brushed any hint of dirt from it. He fumbled with the buttons as he muttered, "Besides, I think it best if I leave before she returns."

"But-"

It was Javert's turn to interrupt, cutting through Valjean's slightly alarmed protest with a sarcastic snort. "I told you, I need to return to my apartment and think over our discussion. Besides, I think it best if your daughter and I do not see much of each other. What are we to tell her should she realize that you and I knew each other before the barricade?"

Valjean winced. Judging by the way his brow furrowed, he was picturing the ensuing conversation and not pleased by what he had imagined. "I had not considered that," he admitted. "And she _will_ realize it, no matter how carefully I phrase things." A small smile formed upon his lips, sincere and almost absurdly sappy. "She is clever, Cosette. Perhaps you noticed-"

"Valjean, I am not remaining here to listen to you sing your daughter's praises," Javert said a little impatiently. The bedroom's window was shut; the room was almost stifling, and, with his winter coat, the heat was proving nearly unbearable. He finished buttoning his coat despite his desire to remove the layer and roll up his sleeves. He raised his hand to snap his fingers at Valjean, and then thought better of it. He extended his palm instead, twitched his fingers when Valjean looked puzzled. "Now just return my money and I will go."

Something flickered upon Valjean's face, the sentiment there and gone before Javert could name it. Still, there was no mistaking Valjean's hesitant tone as he said slowly, "Your money?"

"Yes, my money." When Valjean did not immediately move to fetch it, Javert pursed his lips and huffed in exasperation. "What is the matter now? Surely you do not expect me to rush out to the nearest wine-shop."

"No," Valjean said, but without, Javert thought darkly, much conviction.

"Well, I will not," Javert snapped, and did not add a testy 'however tempting the thought may be,' for that would only ensure that he would never see that money. He folded his arms against his chest, drummed his fingers against his arms when Valjean only frowned. "I have said I will think on your words, so I will return to my apartment and _think_."

"Very well," said Valjean, though still in that slow, uncertain tone. He turned and retrieved a small purse presumably holding Javert's money from behind one of the books on the nearest bookshelf. "Perhaps you should take a cab," he suggested quietly. "Wearing that coat in this weather will do your health no favors."

Javert, who was already beginning to perspire merely wearing the coat indoors, did not argue. He took the purse from Valjean. Despite his care, their fingers brushed during the exchange. Javert gritted his teeth and ignored the way his breath caught in his throat at the inadvertent touch. Yes, leaving now was best. He would be able to think more clearly at his apartment, away from Valjean.

"Will you….that is- your bandages still need changing, do they not? Should I visit tonight?"

Javert paused in the middle of tucking the purse into his pocket. He looked carefully at Valjean, but found only honest concern on Valjean's face. If Valjean had thought further upon what re-bandaging Javert's throat would entail- being close enough to kiss again, Valjean's hands once more upon Javert's throat in something too close to a caress- the idea did not return the embarrassed flush to his face.

"Tomorrow," Javert said, banishing such thoughts from his mind. "Surely you and your daughter will have much to discuss." When Valjean looked ready to protest, a now-familiar mulishness creeping into his expression, Javert added somewhat sharply, "_Tomorrow_."

"Very well," Valjean said, though the mulishness remained in his expression.

Javert tucked the purse into his pocket, making certain it was safely ensconced there before he looked at Valjean again. He was not entirely surprised to find Valjean still frowning, a furrow creasing his forehead.

"I will see you tomorrow," Javert said, though he had said the final word so often in the past few minutes that it seemed nearly meaningless now. He took up Monsieur Bonnet's coat, draped it over one arm, and then started towards the door.

This time Valjean did not protest or attempt to intercept him. He even took a step back so that he would not block the exit, a gesture for which Javert refused to feel grateful. When Javert passed him, Valjean drew in a breath as though to speak; Javert did not let his pace slow, did not let himself hesitate, and after another second, Valjean let out the breath, slowly.

Javert's hat was on a table where the servant had left it. He took it up as well, settled the hat carefully upon his head. He could feel Valjean's gaze against the back of his neck, but Valjean still said nothing. "Tomorrow, then," rose to Javert's lips, but he clenched his teeth against the words and refused to say anything so inane.

At least Valjean did not follow him down the stairs. Javert blinked against the summer sun, half-blinded by the light for a moment. Then he strode resolutely forward, heading towards a more-traveled street where he would better find a hackney cab.

He could no longer feel the weight of Valjean's gaze, did not know if the other man watched him through his window. He did not look back, kept his steps measured, an unruffled contrast to the way his stomach roiled uneasily and how his mouth refused to forget the way Valjean's mouth felt on his.

* * *

Javert discarded his winter coat as soon as he was in his room. Even taking a cab and escaping the direct sunlight had been misery; the coat's fabric was too thick to be comfortable even in the slightly cooler darkness of the cab.

He brushed away sweat from his forehead, looked sourly around his room. Everything displeased him, turned his mood darker. There were the cases Chabouillet had left behind, a reminder that doubtless Moreau and Comtois would be visiting tomorrow with their bewildered, accusing looks. There were fresh bandages in a neat pile, a reminder that tomorrow Valjean would be there once more to confuse him. There was a covered plate of food, a reminder that he had not yet eaten today and Madame Bonnet would scold him the next time she checked in on him.

His stomach pinched at him in rebuke, and he uncovered the plate, slowly began to pick away at the food. He could barely taste it, his thoughts consumed instead by his conversations with Valjean and Chabouillet.

Every time Javert forced Chabouillet's rueful, "Javert, you are as likely to resign as I am. Even if you attempt it, you will find yourself half-mad from boredom within the month, if not the week," from his mind, it was swiftly replaced by Valjean's unbearably earnest, "What if this new way of considering the law means you might be able to help people who would have suffered otherwise?"

Javert rubbed at his forehead, trying to drive off the men's words and the headache gathering once more inside his skull. He grimaced, ignored the way his full stomach remained unsettled. He needed to think of a suitable occupation to throw in Valjean's face tomorrow, and yet here his mind failed.

He attempted to imagine taking up another job, something he would excel at. He could think of nothing. Instead his mind taunted him with the details of the Montmartre case, with the knowledge that the criminals remained at large.

"Damn," he hissed through his teeth. He closed his eyes, but now his thoughts turned to the kiss, the way Valjean's face had looked afterwards, the scent of him, the feel of his hands and mouth. Javert swallowed, thickly. "Damn," he said again, louder, and fumbled blindly for his hat and his coat.

Anything would be better than thinking of how Valjean had immediately sought to pretend nothing unusual had occurred. Perhaps this was another act of cowardice, running away from his own thoughts, but Javert found himself not overly concerned.

The station was busy with its usual mid-day exchange of the guard, and more than a few men had their hands half-raised in automatic greeting before recognition colored their expressions.

"Inspector!" Moreau started over towards him, smiling. "I knew Monsieur Chabouillet was not being serious. Are you-" The young man's voice faltered as Javert strode past him.

It was irritating, the lack of surprise upon Chabouillet's face when Javert marched into his office. He merely raised an eyebrow, cast a quick look at Javert's winter coat, and said, "If you wish to be there for Pascal's attempt at an interview of the de Varley servant, he is at the hospital."

"Yes, sir," Javert said with a sharp nod, and then turned on heel and headed back out into the summer heat.


End file.
